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Studies 


IN 

Literature. 


BY 

G.  W.  GRIFFIN. 


^dilioit. 


PHILADELPHIA: 

CLANTON,  REMSEN  & HAFFELFINGER, 

819  & 821  MARKET  STREET. 

1871. 


/ 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1871,  by 
G.  W.  GRIFFIN, 

in  the  Office  of  the  Librarian  of  Congress  at  Washington. 


STEREOTYPED  BY  J.  FAGAN  & SON.  PRINTED  BY  MOORE  BROTHERS. 


V 


G-S"  A-2. 


TO 

YIRGILINE, 

OUR  BEAUTIFUL  BABY  QUEEN, 


is 

AFFECTIONATELY  INSCRIBED. 


367508 


/ 


THE  success  of  the  first  edition  of  this  volume 
far  surpassed  my  expectations.  In  the  pub- 
lication of  a second  edition,  I feel  that  I ought  to 
express  my  thanks  for  the  encouragement  I have 
received  from  the  newspaper  press. 

To  my  friend  and  former  editorial  associate,  Colonel 
H.  M.  McCarty,  I must  express  my  heartfelt  thanks 
for  the  interest  he  has  taken  in  the  work,  and  for  his 
suggestions  in  regard  to  many  of  its  articles.  Colonel 
McCarty  was  the  first  of  all  my  friends  to  encourage 
me  to  write  ; and  to  his  judicious  criticisms,  and  almost 
unremitting  kindness,  I am  indebted  for  much  of  the 
little  reputation  I enjoy. 

My  thanks  are  also  due  to  W.  W.  Nevin,  of  the 
Philadelphia  Press , for  his  handsome  review  of  my 
book,  and  also  to  R.  Shelton  Mackenzie,  for  the  able 
and  learned  manner  in  which  he  pointed  out  and 
corrected  the  errors  into  which  I had  fallen,  through 
carelessness,  in  the  article  on  Vathek. 

The  praise  bestowed  upon  the  memoir  of  Mr. 
Prentice,  has  induced  me  to  rewrite  it,  and  to  include 

vii 


Vlll 


PREFACE. 


in  it  a number  of  extracts  from  his  prose  and  poetical 
writings. 

The  editor  of  the  Springfield  (Mass.)  Republican , in 
a paltry  and  contemptible  criticism  on  my  book,  takes 
me  to  task  somewhat  savagely  for  not  making  any 
mention  of  the  poet  Forceythe  Wilson  in  the  biography 
attached  to  the  new  edition  of  Prentice  ana  ; but  if  it  is 
any  satisfaction  to  the  editor  of  the  Republican , I will 
say  that  it  was  almost  impossible,  in  the  limits  pre- 
scribed for  the  memoir,  to  make  mention  of  all  the 
poets  who  have  contributed  to  the  columns  of  the 
Louisville  Journal . I will  also  say  that  there  are  but 
few  American  poets  for  whose  verses  I have  a higher 
and  a more  sincere  admiration  than  I have  for  those 
of  Forceythe  Wilson.  Mr.  W.  began  his  short  literary 
career  as  a contributor  to  the  Journal ; and  if  I mistake 
not,  his  singular  and  pathetic  ballad,  “ The  Old  Ser- 
geant,” so  widely  read  and  admired,  was  first  published 
as  a New-Year’s  Address,  January  ist,  1863,  in  Mr. 
Prentice’s  paper. 

Miss  Lizzie  Cornwell  Smith,  who  became  Mr.  Wil- 
son’s wife,  but  who  died  before  him,  also  had  her  pure 
and  gentle  poetic  promise  recognized  and  encouraged 
by  Mr.  Prentice  — a promise  foreclosed  by  an  early 
death. 

I have  endeavored  to  correct  all  the  errors  which 
crept  into  the  former  edition  of  the  book,  in  conse- 
quence of  my  being  compelled  to  intrust  the  correc- 
tion of  the  proof-sheets  to  others. 

G.  W.  GRIFFIN. 

Louisville,  October,  1870. 


George  D.  Prentice 

Autographs 

Vathek 

FRENCH  NOVELISTS. 

Marmontel 

Victor  Hugo,  with  a Glance  at  his  Works.. 

SHAKSPEARIAN  STUDIES. 

The  Tempest 

Antony  and  Cleopatra 

Cymbeline 

All ’s  Well  that  Ends  Well 

EDWIN  BOOTH. 

Edwin  Booth’s  “ Macbeth” 

Edwin  Booth’s  “ Hamlet” 

PHILOLOGY. 


PAGE 

13 

79 

97 

109 

11 7 

125 

130 

139 

146 

155 

167 


A Philological  Study 


ix 


177 


X 


CONTENTS. 


MISCELLANEOUS  ESSAYS. 


Percy  Bysshe  Shelley 19 1 

The  Gypsies 198 

David  Garrick 205 

Dante 212 

-The  Scarlet  Letter 219 

Janauschek 225 

Thackeray,  with  a Gdance  at  “Vanity  Fair” 234 

Dreaming 239 

Godfrey  N.  Frankenstein 248 

Mackenzie’s  Life  of  Dickens 267 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


Studies  in  Literature. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


HE  life  of  this  distinguished  poet  and  journalist  has 


been  one  of  the  glories  of  our  land  ; but  only  those 
who  have  been  brought  within  the  charmed  circle  of  his 
acquaintance,  and  enjoyed  his  confidence  and  friendship, 
can  form  a just  idea  of  the  peerless  grace  and  lofty 
beauty  of  his  soul.  He  seemed  to  belong  to  a higher 
order  of  beings  than  those  of  this  earth ; and  I can  but 
feel,  in  approaching  the  subject  of  his  memory,  that  I am 
treading  upon  sacred  ground.  He  was  my  best  and  truest 
friend.  I consulted  him  upon  nearly  every  duty  and  obli- 
gation that  I owed  to  society  and  to  the  world,  and  I 
always  found  him  the  wisest  and  gentlest  teacher,  and  the 
safest  and  surest  guide.  His  heart  was  so  eloquent  in  the 
depth,  pathos,  and  purity  of  its  affections,  that  I was  never 
in  his  presence  without  feeling  wiser  and  better.  I had 
known  him  so  long  and  so  well,  and  had  been  the  recipient 
of  so  many  acts  of  love  and  kindness  from  his  hands,  that 
I began  to  look  upon  his  existence  as  necessary  for  my 
happiness  upon  earth.  There  was  nothing  that  he  could 

2 13 


H 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


do  for  me  that  he  did  not  do  cheerfully.  In  no  instance 
did  he  endeavor  to  make  me  sensible  of  the  obligation  I 
owed  him,  but  he  ever  appeared  more  like  the  receiver 
than  the  giver.  There  was  scarcely  a day  during  the  past 
five  years  that  I did  not  see  him,  or  receive  some  message 
from  him.  It  was  his  custom  to  spend  at  least  two  even- 
ings in  every  week  at  my  house.  A chair  was  placed  for 
him  regularly  at  our  table,  and  no  one  was  allowed  to 
occupy  it  during  his  absence.  This  little  mark  of  respect 
seemed  always  to  please  him  exceedingly,  for  even  trivial 
kindnesses  were  never  passed  unnoticed  by  him,  and  those 
who  conferred  them  were  always  well  paid  by  some  pleas- 
ant word  or  acknowledgment.  There  was  a mildness,  a 
dignity,  a love,  and  a patience  about  him  peculiarly  his 
own;  and,  now  that  he  is  dead,  I feel  half  ashamed  of  the 
little  that  I can  add  to  his  memory. 

George  Dennison  Prentice  was  born  at  Griswold, 
Connecticut,  on  the  18th  of  December,  1802.  He  dis- 
played very  early  in  life  talents  of  no  common  order.  He 
excited  the  admiration  of  every  one  who  knew  him,  by  the 
marvellous  facility  with  which  he  acquired  the  most  diffi- 
cult and  complicated  branches  of  knowledge.  He  was 
able  to  read  fluently  when  only  four  years  of  age.  He  was 
a fine  Greek  and  Latin  scholar,  and  at  the  age  of  fifteen 
could  translate  and  parse  any  sentence  in  Homer  or  Virgil. 
At  this  time  he  was  prepared  to  enter  the  sophomore  class 
at  college,  but  was  compelled  to  teach  a district  school  in 
order  to  defray  the  expense  of  a collegiate  education.  In 
1820  he  entered  Brown  University,  at  Providence,  Rhode 
Island,  where  he  was  graduated  in  1823.  A few  years  later 
he  studied  law,  and  was  soon  admitted  to  the  Bar.  He  did 
not  find  the  practice  of  law  tongenial  to  his  tastes,  and  he 
devoted  himself  to  literature.  In  1828  he  started  th elVew- 
England  Review . This  paper  was  successful  from  the 

beginning.  The  editor  at  once  distinguished  himself  by 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


15 


his  bold  and  incisive  style  of  writing.  In  1830  he  left  the 
New- England  Review  in  charge  of  the  poet  Whittier,  and 
accepted  an  invitation  to  go  to  Kentucky  for  the  purpose 
of  writing  the  biography  of  Henry  Clay.  As  soon  as  he 
reached  Lexington,  the  home  of  Mr.  Clay,  he  went  to 
work  at  once  upon  the  biography.  It  was  completed  in  a 
very  short  time.  It  met  with  a most  enthusiastic  reception, 
not  only  from  the  people  of  Kentucky,  but  from  the  entire 
Whig  party  of  the  nation.  It  contains  by  far  the  most 
correct  account  ever  given  to  the  public,  of  the  life  of  that 
distinguished  statesman,  as  well  as  the  most  animated  and 
eloquent  exposition  of  the  political  principles  of  his  party. 
Mr.  Clay  cherished  for  his  biographer  the  warmest  feelings 
of  affection,  and  often  said  that  he  owed  the  greater  part 
of  his  fame  to  him.  It  is  almost  useless  to  speak  of  the 
services  Mr.  Prentice  rendered  Mr.  Clay,  for  they  are  so 
manifold  and  varied  that  the  names  of  the  great  statesman 
and  the  great  journalist  are  inseparably  associated. 

Mr.  Prentice  removed  to  Louisville  in  the  month  of 
September,  1830,  and  on  the  24th  day  of  the  following 
November  he  published  the  first  number  of  the  Louisville 
Journal.  The  politics  of  the  country  were  at  that  time 
exciting  in  the  extreme.  The  Democratic  party  determined, 
if  possible,  to  defeat  Mr.  Clay  in  his  own  State.  The  lead- 
ing Democratic  organ  in  Kentucky  was  a paper  called  the 
Louisville  Advertiser.  It  was  under  the  editorial  manage- 
ment of  Shadrach  Penn,  one  of  the  most  eloquent  and  ef- 
fective writers  in  the  State.  Mr.  Penn’s  friends  had  the 
most  unbounded  confidence  in  him.  They  predicted  that 
he  would  demolish  Mr.  Prentice  at  a single  blow. 

Those  who  remember  the  warfare  waged  between  these 
two  knights  of  the  quill,  have  no  difficulty  in  realizing  that 
there  were  giants  in  those  days.  Each  of  the  editors  was 
recognized  as  a champion  with  whom  ordinary  mortals 
must  not  interfere.  In  their  respective  fields  they  possessed 


i6 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


powers  rarely  rivalled.  Mr.  Penn  had  a great  advantage  in 
a well  and  widely  established  reputation  in  the  venue  where 
the  case  was  to  be  tried,  while  Mr.  Prentice  was  compara- 
tively a stranger,  and  apparently  weak.  Mr.  Penn  had 
rarely  met  an  editor  able  to  cope  with  him.  After  he  had 
vanquished  the  redoubtable  Amos  Kendall,  on  the  Old  and 
New  Court  issues  which  convulsed  the  State,  Mr.  Penn  was 
the  recognized  champion  of  the  party  that  had  triumphed 
in  the  great  contest  in  which  those  issues  were  tried.  In 
this  condition  of  things,  it  is  not  likely  that  Mr.  Penn 
dreaded  any  contemporary  writer  on  politics.  The  com- 
paratively young  Connecticut  writer  had  fully  surveyed  the 
ground  before  consenting  to  link  himself  with  the  enter- 
prise of  a new  daily  paper  in  Louisville.  He  had  measured 
the  powers  of  the  veteran  Penn,  but  he  had  unbounded  con- 
fidence in  his  own  powers. 

When  the  dmeute  began  to  brew  in  the  Advertiser , Mr. 
Prentice  gave  an  admonitory  warning,  announcing  that 
without  desiring  strife  he  was  ready  for  it.  He  stated  that 
his  editorial  quiver  was  armed  with  quills  of  all  sizes,  from 
those  of  the  humming-bird  to  those  of  the  eagle.  The  war 
began,  and  was  waged  with  activity  and  vigor  for  the 
space  of  eleven  years.  Each  of  the  combatants  possessed 
great  powers,  and  up  to  the  end  of  the  war  each  had  hosts 
of  friends.  Mr.  Prentice  became  famous  throughout  the 
Union.  The  remarkable  purity  of  his  diction  — a purity  in 
which  he  had  few  equals  and  no  superior ; his  wonderful 
versatility  of  expression,  by  which  he  was  able  to  use  the 
same  thing  many  times,  and  never  twice  alike ; the  Attic 
salt  of  his  wit,  the  torturing  power  of  his  irony,  his  satire 
and  sarcasm,  the  terse  epigrammatic  force  which  enabled 
him  often  to  overwhelm  an  antagonist  in  a single  sentence, 
made  him  the  most  popular  and  renowned  journalist  in  the 
country.  These  qualities  made  Mr.  Prentice  a power  in 
the  land  ; a power  which  he  never  abused.  He  was  at  all 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  \J 

times  placable,  even  with  those  who  had  most  abused  him. 
This  is  beautifully  portrayed  in  his  reconciliation  with  Mr. 
Penn.  I am  indebted  to  Dr.  T.  S.  Bell,  of  Louisville,  for 
an  account  of  this  noble  feature  in  the  lives  of  the  two 
renowned  journalists.  Dr.  Bell  was  the  intimate  friend  of 
each  of  the  editors  ; and  on  the  eve  of  the  departure  of  Mr. 
Penn  for  St.  Louis,  Dr.  Bell  proposed  to  both  gentlemen 
the  project  of  an  interview.  Each  assented  to  the  pro- 
posal, and  each  of  them  gave  Dr.  Bell  full  power  to  act  for 
him.  The  interview  took  place  at  Dr.  Bell’s  office,  and 
commenced  and  ended  most  happily.  Mr.  Prentice  began 
by  expressing  the  hope  that  the  necessity  of  Mr.  Penn’s  de- 
parture was  not  absolute,  and  begged  to  know  of  Mr.  Penn 
whether  he,  Mr.  Prentice,  could  be  of  any  service  in  aid- 
ing him  to  remain.  He  eloquently  alluded  to  the  long 
series  of  Kentucky  enterprises,  and  the  numerous  recog- 
nized schemes  for  the  prosperity  of  Louisville,  that  endeared 
Mr.  Penn  to  the  people  of  Kentucky,  and  Mr.  Prentice 
deplored  the  departure  of  Mr.  Penn  from  the  State  as  a 
public  calamity.  Toward  the  close  of  the  interview,  Mr. 
Prentice  assured  Mr.  Penn  of  his  earnest  purpose  to  give 
him  all  the  aid  in  his  power  toward  making  Mr.  Penn’s 
career  in  Missouri  a success.  This  pledge  he  fulfilled.  It 
is  difficult  to  conceive  of  anything  more  beautiful  of  its  kind 
than  Mr.  Prentice’s  tribute  to  Mr.  Penn  upon  the  depar- 
ture of  the  latter  for  St.  Louis.  Mr.  Prentice  read  the 
article,  before  publishing  it,  to  Dr.  Bell,  as  the  common 
friend  of  Mr.  Penn  and  of  himself,  and  asked  for  any  sug- 
gestions for  elaborating  this  magnanimous  editorial.  I need 
not  add  that  Mr.  Penn  was  much  gratified  with  it. 

Mr.  Penn  died,  after  a successful  career  as  a journalist,  in 
St.  Louis,  in  June,  1840.  Mr.  Prentice  wrote  his  obituary 
for  the  Journal ’ It  is  regarded  as  the  finest  tribute  ever 

paid  to  his  memory. 

2 * 


l8  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

Mr.  Prentice  was  one  of  the  most  industrious  men  that 
ever  edited  a daily  paper.  He  wrote  with  great  facility, 
but  kept  himself  well  posted  in  all  political  matters,  not 
only  those  that  were  contemporary  with  him,  but  with  those 
of  the  past.  Until  within  a few  years  he  never  left  the  office 
until  the  editorial  page  was  imposed  as  he  desired  it  to  be, 
and  locked  up  in  the  chase. 

In  1840,  he  was  attacked  with  a disease  called  chorea 
scriptorum , caused  by  excessive  writing.  This  disease  shows 
itself  only  when  the  hand  attempts  to  write.  Mr.  Prentice 
could  handle  other  things  than  a writing  instrument  without 
any  trouble.  Indeed,  for  a long  time  after  the  appearance- 
of  the  disease,  he  was  able  to  write  many  words  until  the 
thumb  was  pressed  toward  the  index  finger,  when  the  pen 
would  fly  from  him  as  though  some  one  had  struck  it.  One 
morning,  while  suffering  in  this  way,  he  composed  a beauti- 
ful song  for  his  friend,  Dr.  T.  S.  Bell.  Mr.  Prentice’s 
amanuensis  was  not  in,  and  he  stepped  over  to  the  Doctor’s 
office,  and  asked  him  to  write  something  for  him,  saying, 
“ It  is  for  you  and  your  wife.”  Mr.  Prentice  then  dictated 
the  following  beautiful  lines,  which  were  afterward  set  to 
music  by  a distinguished  artist  of  Poland  : 

We ’ve  shared  each  other’s  smiles  and  tears 
Through  years  of  wedded  life ; 

And  love  has  blessed  those  fleeting  years, 

My  own,  my  cherished  wife. 

And  if,  at  times,  the  storm’s  dark  shroud 
Has  rested  in  the  air, 

Love’s  beaming  sun  has  kissed  the  cloud, 

And  left  the  rainbow  there. 

In  all  our  hopes,  in  all  our  dreams, 

Love  is  forever  nigh  ; 

A blossom  in  our  path  it  seems, 

A sunbeam  in  our  sky. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


19 


P'or  all  our  joys  of  brightest  hue 
Grow  brighter  in  love’s  smile, 

And  there ’s  no  grief  our  hearts  e’er  knew 
That  love  could  not  beguile. 

Those  who  were  not  acquainted  with  Mr.  Prentice’s  for- 
giving nature,  have  been  surprised  that  his  enemies  should 
so  often  display  a readiness  to  forget  and  forgive  the  many 
severe  things  he  said  about  them. 

At  one  time,  Mike  Walsh,  a prominent  Democratic  politi- 
cian of  New  York,  provoked  a quarrel  with  him,  and  was 
severely  punished  for  his  temerity.  Mr.  Prentice  handled 
him  without  gloves,  and  let  fall  a perfect  torrent  of  wit  and 
sarcasm  and  satire  against  him.  At  the  time  of  the  contro- 
versy, Mr.  Prentice  and  Mr.  Walsh  were  personally  stran- 
gers to  each  other,  and,  as  may  naturally  be  supposed,  the  lat- 
ter did  not  care  to  alter  the  relation.  They  met,  however, 
some  time  afterward,  at  a dinner  party  in  Washington.  As 
Mr.  Prentice  advanced,  Walsh  fixed  his  piercing  eyes  upon 
him,  without  offering  his  hand,  and  exclaimed  : “ You  are 
George  D.  Prentice,  are  you?”  Mr.  Prentice  bowed 
an  assent,  and  Walsh  said:  “You  must  know,  sir,  that  I 
like  you ; although  you  have  skinned  me  from  the  crown 
of  my  head  to  the  soles  of  my  feet,  your  instrument  was  so 
sharp  and  so  skilfully  used  that  the  operation  was  rather 
pleasant  than  otherwise.” 

During  Mr.  Prentice’s  long  and  eventful  life  he  was 
engaged  in  many  controversies,  and,  strange  to  say,  he 
invariably  came  out  triumphant.  Some  of  his  controversies 
led  to  violent  personal  encounters;  but  I have  his  own 
testimony,  and  that  of  many  of  the  oldest  and  best  citizens 
of  Louisville,  that  he  was  not  the  aggressor  in  a single 
instance. 

Some  years  ago,  George  James  Trotter,  editor  of  the  Ken- 
tucky Gazette , fired  at  him  on  Market  Street,  in  Louisville, 


20 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


* without  the  slightest  warning,  and  wounded  him  near  the 
heart.  Mr.  Prentice,  with  knife  in  hand,  instantly  threw 
him  to  the  ground,  and  held  him  irresistibly  in  his  grasp. 
A large  crowd  gathered  around  the  scene,  and  nearly  every 
one  present  cried  out,  “ Kill  him  ! kill  him  ! ” Mr.  Pren- 
tice instantly  let  go  his  hold,  and  exclaimed,  “I  cannot 
kill  a disarmed  and  helpless  man  ! ’ ’ 

Mr.  Prentice’s  forgiving  nature  was  so  widely  known, 
that  those  who  had  wronged  him  most  did  not  hesitate  to 
accost  him  in  terms  of  apparent  friendship. 

On  one  occasion,  Thomas  Jefferson  Pew,  without  the 
slightest  provocation,  said  some  very  scandalous  things 
about  him.  Pew  was  so  unworthy  of  Prentice’s  notice, 
that  I do  not  believe  he  ever  replied  to  him ; but  one  morn- 
ing, several  years  afterward,  he  had  the  audacity  to  enter 
Prentice’s  office.  Pew  was  in  a wretched  and  filthy  con- 
dition; his  clothes  were  worn  and  seedy,  and,  with  un- 
combed hair  and  unshaved  face,  he  presented  a most  dis- 
gusting and  loathsome  appearance.  He  called  Prentice 
aside,  and  after  some  conversation  left  the  office.  Fortunatus 
Cosby,  the  distinguished  poet,  was  in  the  room  at  the  time, 
and  asked  Mr.  Prentice  the  name  of  his  unsightly  visitor. 
Mr.  Prentice  replied,  “ He  is  Thomas  Jefferson  Pew.  He 
told  me  that  he  was  in  distress,  and  that  he  wanted  two 
dollars  and  a half  for  the  purpose  of  going  to  see  his 
mother.”  “ Yes,”  said  Cosby,  “and  I suppose  you  were 
silly  enough  to  give  it  to  him  ? ” “ No,”  replied  Prentice  ; 

“ I recollected  that  I had  a mother,  and  asked  myself  the 
question  what  she  would  have  thought  of  me  had  I appeared 
before  her  in  such  a filthy  condition ; and  I gave  him  twenty- 
five  dollars , and  told  him  to  go  to  see  his  mother  in  the 
garb  of  a gentleman.” 

In  1835,  Ml  Prentice  was  married  to  Miss  Harriet 
Benham,  the  daughter  of  Colonel  Joseph  Benham,  a distin- 
guished lawyer  of  Kentucky. 


21 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 

The  Louisville  Journal , under  the  guidance  of  Mr.  Pren- 
tice, for  a period  of  thirty  years  probably  exercised  more 
political  power  and  influence  than  any  other  paper  in 
America.  It  has  been  said,  and  said  truly,  that  “ among 
the  newspaper  press  it  was  a monocrat.  ’ ’ It  exercised  as 
much  influence  in  the  field  of  literature  as  in  the  field  of 
politics.  It  made  and  unmade  poets  and  essayists  as  well 
as  politicians  and  statesmen.  A writer  whose  contributions 
appeared  in  its  columns  considered  his  reputation  as  an 
author  established.  Fortunatus  Cosby,  John  J.  Piatt,  For- 
ceythe  Wilson,  Lewis  J.  Cist,  Emma  Alice  Browne,  Rosa 
Vertner  Jeffrey,  Amelia  Welby,  Sallie  M.  Bryan,  and  many 
others  equally  distinguished,  owe  their  first  public  intro- 
duction to  it. 

Its  editor  became  daily  more  and  more  popular.  He 
was  known  almost  as  well  in  Europe  as  in  America.  He 
scorned  to  be  subservient  to  any  clique  or  party.  There 
was  no  mortgage  on  his  brain.  Everything  that  was  mean, 
or  little,  or  false,  or  meretricious,  was  foreign  to  him.  He 
never  courted  popular  applause.  It  seemed  that  there  was 
nothing  outside  of  the  range  of  his  genius.  No  such  word 
as  failure  was  written  in  his  lexicon.  He  accomplished 
everything  he  undertook.  His  learning  was  varied,  thor- 
ough, and  profound.  What  he  did  not  know  he  never 
affected  to  possess.  He  imitated  no  one.  He  created 
models  rather  than  followed  them.  He  had  no  especial 
fondness  for  quotations.  Whenever  he  availed  himself  of 
the  writings  of  others,  they  were  so  refined  in  the  crucible 
of  his  genius  that  they  became  his  own.  His  memory 
was  not  only  retentive,  but  trustworthy  in  the  fullest  sense 
of  the  word.  His  command  over  language  was  extraordi- 
nary. It  was  tyrannous.  He  could  think  of  a thou- 
sand words  at  once,  and  select  the  one  best  suited  for  his 
purpose.  He  was  a natural  grammarian.  I have  heard 
him  say  that  he  understood  every  principle  of  English 
grammar  as  if  by  intuition,  and  that  when  a child  he  aston- 


22 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


ished  his  teacher  by  finishing  the  study  of  Lindley  Murray 
in  less  than  a week.  His  style  of  writing  was  quick,  sub- 
tle, powerful,  and  massive.  There  was  nothing  dull  or 
commonplace  about  it.  He  wrote  with  marvellous  facility, 
and  often  dashed  off  from  six  to  ten  columns  of  printed 
matter  a day.  His  wit  was  keen,  sparkling,  and  original. 
His  humor  was  rich  and  racy,  and,  like  that  of  Lamb  and 
Fielding,  at  once  broad  and  fine.  He  was  always  willing 
to  fight  an  up-hill  battle,  for  he  was  as  skilful  in  attack  as  in 
defence.  His  anger  was  slow  to  arouse,  but  when  aroused, 
it  was  like  the  lightning’s  flash,  brief  and  quick,  but  sure. 

The  affluence  of  Mr.  Prentice  in  genius  and  in  equip- 
ments of  education  seemed  to  be  well-nigh  endless.  He 
was  as  generous  in  the  beneficent  use  of  his  intellectual 
wealth  as  he  was  great  in  the  magnitude  of  its  possession. 
Those  who  knew  him  intimately  during  his  editorial  career 
in  Louisville,  can  easily  call  up  from  the  storehouse  of 
memory  hundreds  of  examples  of  his  judicious,  un- 
stinted, and  benevolent  kindness  to  young  aspirants  for 
fame.  The  term  judicious  kindness  is  illustrated  in  the 
case  of  Mrs.  Amelia  Welby.  Many  persons  who  saw  her 
charming  poems  in  the  columns  of  the  Louisville  Journal , 
and  who  knew  of  her  limited  education,  were  unable  to 
conceive  that  she  was  capable  of  writing  the  beautiful  poetry 
that  appeared  in  her  name.  The  surmise  was  quite  common 
among  this  class  of  persons  that  Mr.  Prentice  either  wrote 
the  poems  or  corrected  and  dressed  them  up  for  her.  A 
distinguished  gentleman  of  Louisville,  who  was  quite  inti- 
mate with  Amelia,  and  had  often  seen  her  write  her  poems, 
mentioned  the  current  story  on  one  occasion  to  Mr.  Pren- 
tice, who  said:  “1  recognized  the  priceless  beauty  of 

her  genius  too  well  to  spoil  it  in  that  way.  I never  cor- 
rected a word  in  any  of  her  writings.  On  a few  occasions, 
when  she  had  used  a word  which  I would  not  have  used,  I 
sent  her  manuscript  back  to  her  with  the  defective  word 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


23 


marked,  and  she  immediately  corrected  the  diction  herself. 
Beyond  that  I never  aided,  nor  had  occasion  to  aid  her.” 

Amelia  loved  music,  and  played  instrumental  music 
beautifully,  without  any  education  in  it.  She  sang  as 
sweetly,  and  as  melodiously,  as  she  wrote.  She  had  an 
intense  love  for  flowers,  and  possessed  a husband  whose 
gifts  as  a floriculturist  gave  him  power  to  abundantly 
gratify  her  floral  desires.  Some  of  her  beautiful  tributes 
to  music,  birds,  and  flowers  adorn  the  tasteful  column 
erected  to  her  memory  in  Cave  Hill  Cemetery. 

Nothing  in  the  career  of  Mr.  Prentice  was  more  aston- 
ishing than  the  ease  and  naturalness  with  which  he  at  all 
times  called  his  gifts  of  education  into  duty  when  an  occa- 
sion called  for  their  exercise.  He  never  used  Greek  or 
Latin  words  in  his  compositions,  yet  such  was  his  intimacy 
with  those  languages,  that  upon  the  spur  of  the  moment  he 
often  gave  criticisms  of  as  profound  a character  as  though 
he  devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  study  of  the  classics. 
Dr.  Bell  was  his  physician  for  thirty-seven  years,  and  was 
one  of  his  most  intimate  friends  through  that  long  period, 
yet  he  was  not  even  aware  that  Mr.  Prentice  was  almost 
a perfect  master  of  mathematics,  until  Dr.  $.  G.  Howe, 
the  renowned  philanthropist,  visited  Kentucky  at  the  invi- 
tation of  a number  of  her  citizens,  to  aid  in  the  establish- 
ment of  a State  institution  for  the  education  of  the  blind. 
Dr.  Howe  brought  with  him  a pupil  of  the  “ Perkins  Insti- 
tute for  the  Blind/’  and  a pupil  also  of  Harvard  College. 
This  pupil,  Mr.  Smith,  possessed  a remarkable  education 
as  a musician,  classical  scholar,  linguist,  and  mathemati- 
cian. Dr.  Howe,  who  was  a student  of  Brown  University 
with  Mr.  Prentice,  requested  Mr.  Prentice  to  attend  the 
public  meeting  of  the  citizens  of  Louisville,  where  Mr. 
Smith  was  to  show  that  blindness  was  not  a barrier  to  the 
acquisition  of  a varied  and  extensive  and  profound  educa- 
cation.  Mr.  Prentice  was  called  upon  at  the  meeting  to 


24 


STUDIES  IN.  LITERATURE. 


make  important  problems  for  solution  by  Mr.  Smith.  The 
first  problems  were  not  remarkably  recondite,  but  as  soon 
as  Mr.  Prentice  discovered  Mr.  Smith’s  proficiency,  he 
rose  into  the  highest  departments  of  mathematics,  and 
made  problems  that  might  have  found  an  appropriate  place 
in  Hutton’s  Mathematical  Recreations,  whicli  could  not  be 
called  recreations  to  any  one  but  a profound  mathematician. 

In  1854,  Mr.  Prentice  went  to  Arkansas  for  the  purpose 
of  aiding  a great  railroad  enterprise.  His  mission  was 
crowned  with  the  most  brilliant  success.  He  was  received 
in  every  city  through  which  he  passed  with  the  most  enthu- 
siastic manifestations  of  delight.  While  in  Little  Rock,  he 
wrote  an  article  for  the  True  Democrat , which  a Mr.  Hew- 
son,  of  that  city,  construed  to  reflect  personally  upon  him, 
and  the  following  correspondence  took  place  between  them : 

Little  Rock,  November  22,  1854. 

Sir, — My  attention  has  been  directed  to  a publication  in 
the  True  Democrat,  over  the  signature  of  “Arkansas,”  and 
as,  upon  inquiry  of  Mr.  R.  H.  Johnson,  the  editor  of  that 
journal,  I learn  that  you  are  the  author  of  the  publication 
in  question,  I hereby  request  the  immediate  withdrawal, 
over  your  own  signature,  of  all  the  personalities  directed  in 
that  article  against  me.  This  note  will  be  handed  you  by 
my  friend,  Major  Thompson.  Pending  your  reply  to  this 
communication,  I have  the  honor,  etc. 

M.  Butt  Hewson. 

True  copy  handed  to  G.  D.  P.  on  the  2 2d  of  November, 
1854.  F.  P.  Redmond. 

Little  Rock,  November  23,  1854. 

Mr.  Hewson, —You  request  me  to  withdraw  what  you 
call  the  personalities  of  my  article  in  the  True  Democrat 
of  yesterday.  Sir,  I have  no  knowledge  whatever  of  you 
except  from  your  published  writings.  In  the  article  you 
speak  of,  I had  and  could  have  no  intention  to  apply  to  you 
any  phraseology  not  predicated  wholly  and  avowedly  on 
such  portions  of  your  writings  as  I cited.  It  was  not  in  my 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


25 


thought  to  pursue  outside  of  your  publication  and  assail 
your  private  character  and  conduct.  If  any  of  my  lan- 
guage seems  to  you  to  bear  a contrary  construction,  I dis- 
claim such  construction  as  unworthy  myself,  and,  so  far 
as  I know,  unjust  to  you.  I think  this  explanation,  if  any 
was  needed,  should  be  satisfactory  to  you ; and  it  is  all  I 
have  to  give.  Yours,  etc. 

George  D.  Prentice. 


* 

Little  Rock,  November  23,  1854. 

Sir, — Your  note  of  this  date  has  been  handed  me  by  my 
friend,  Major  Thompson.  In  reply,  I take  leave  to  remark 
that,  as  my  letter  requested  a simple  withdrawal  of  the  per- 
sonalities of  your  publication,  I must  take  leave  to  add,  that 
nothing  in  the  case  will  meet  my  wishes  short  of  a plain, 
direct,  unconditional  withdrawal  of  the  same.  My  friend, 
Major  T.,  will  hand  you  this  communication.  I have  the 
honor  to  be,  sir,  your  most  obedient  servant, 

M.  Butt  Hewson. 

Little  Rock,  November  24,  1854. 

Sir, — Your  note,  dated  yesterday,  was  handed  me  this 
morning.  I have  no  other  reply  to  make  to  it  than  that 
which  I made  to  your  first.  I cannot  properly  say  to  you 
that  I retract  the  personalities  of  my  article  in  the  True 
Democrat , for  I do  not  think  it  contains  any.  I have  dis- 
* tinctly  disclaimed  any  such  construction  of  the  language  of 
that  article  as  would  imply  an  imputation  upon  your  per- 
sonal character  or  conduct,  and  I do  not  recognize  any 
right  or  reason  on  your  part  to  ask  or  expect  more  of  me. 
This  I deem  quite  as  much  due  to  myself  as  to  you. 

Presuming  that  your  notes  are  written  to  me  with  a view 
to  a duel,  I may  as  well  say  here,  that  I have  not  the  least 
thought  of  accepting  a challenge  from  you.  I consider  my 
strictures  upon  your  writings  entirely  legitimate,  and,  at  any 
rate,  the  disclaimer  that  I have  made  ought  to  satisfy  you. 

I came  here  from  a distant  State  because  many  believed 
I could  do  something  to  promote  a great  and  important  en- 
terprise, and  as  I have  no  reason  to  think  that  my  labors 
are  not  altogether  in  vain,  I do  not  intend  to  let  myself 
be  diverted  from  them.  There  are  some  persons,  and 
perhaps  many,  to  whom  my  life  is  valuable,  and,  however 
3 


26 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


little  or  much  value  I may  attach  to  it  on  my  own  account, 
1 do  not  see  fit  at  present  to  put  it  up  voluntarily  against 
yours. 

I am  no  believer  in  the  duelling  code.  I would  not  call 
a man  to  the  field  unless  he  had  done  me  such  a deadly 
wrong  that  I desired  to  kill  him,  and  I would  not  obey  his 
call  to  the  field  unless  I had  done  him  so  mortal  an  injury 
as  to  entitle  him,  in  my  opinion,  to  demand  an  opportunity 
of  taking  my  life.  I have  not  the  least  desire  to  kill  you  or 
to  harm  a hair  of  your  head,  and  I am  not  conscious  of 
having  done  anything  to  entitle  you  to  kill  me.  I do  not 
want  your  blood  upon  my  hands,  and  I do  not  want  my 
own  upon  anybody’s.  I might  yield  much  to  the  demands 
of  a strong  public  sentiment,  but  there  is  no  public  senti- 
ment, nor  even  any  disinterested  individual  sentiment,  that 
either  requires  me  to  meet  you,  or  would  justify  me  in 
doing  so. 

I look  upon  the  miserable  code  that  is  said  to  require  two 
men  to  go  out  and  shoot  at  each  other,  for  what  one  of 
them  may  consider  a violation  of  etiquette  or  punctilio  in 
the  use  of  language,  with  a scorn  equal  to  that  which  is  get- 
ting to  be  felt  for  it  by  the  whole  civilized  world  of  man- 
kind. I am  not  afraid  to  express  such  views  in  the  enlight- 
ened capital  of  Arkansas,  or  anywhere  else.  I am  not  so 
cowardly  as  to  stand  in  dread  of  any  imputation  on  my 
courage.  I have  always  had  courage  enough  to  defend  my 
honor  and  myself,  and  I presume  I always  shall  have. 

Your  most,  etc.  George  D.  Prentice. 

Mr.  Prentice  was  prevailed  upon  to  omit,  in  the  pub- 
lished correspondence,  the  following  severe  paragraph: 

You  may,  for  aught  I know,  be  a man  of  reputable  stand- 
ing, and  I disclaim  any  refusal  to  meet  you  on  the  ground 
of  your  not  being  a gentleman;  but  you  are  not  of  the  order 
of  men  whom  I should  choose  to  fight,  if  I fought  at  all. 
If  you  were  to  kill  me,  you  would  kill  a man  who  is  the 
support  and  stay  of  his  family,  and  who  is  extensively  re- 
garded as  one  of  the  stays  and  supports  of  his  party,  and 
as  the  possessor  of  some  influence  in  the  affairs  of  the  coun- 
try; but  I presume  that  it  is  of  no  great  consequence  to 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  2J 

any,  except  your  immediate  personal  friends,  whether  you 
die  or  live. 

I have  often  heard  Mr.  Prentice  speak  of  the  enthusiasm 
with  which  he  was  welcomed  by  the  people,  irrespective  of 
party,  in  the  South,  after  the  success  of  his  mission  to  Arkan- 
sas. He  was  everywhere  toasted  and  praised.  He  was  the 
recipient,  at  Little  Rock,  of  one  of  the  most  brilliant  ban- 
quets ever  given  to  any  citizen.  He  made,  on  that  occa- 
sion, a beautiful  and  eloquent  speech,  which  was  copied  in 
almost  every  paper  in  the  Union.  The  following  is  a brief 
extract  from  it: 

“Your  committee,  gentlemen,  have  thought  proper  to 
compliment  me  as  The  tried  and  consistent  advocate  of  law 
and  order.’  I have  endeavored  to  be  such.  Yes,  I can 
proudly  say  that  I have  been  such.  Unfalteringly  and  earn- 
estly, throughout  my  whole  editorial  life,  I have  advocated 
law  and  order.  I have  advocated  them  when  their  advo- 
cacy was  believed  by  many  to  involve  pecuniary  ruin  and 
the  most  fearful  personal  danger.  I have,  in  ail  cases,  no 
matter  whether  friends  or  enemies  were  concerned,  gone  for 
the  observance  and  maintenance  of  the  laws  as  interpreted 
and  administered  by  the  constituted  authorities  of  the  land ; 
and  I have  gone  for  leaving  their  execution  to  those  author- 
ities, uninfluenced  by  the  clamor  of  the  public  press.  I have 
done  this,  and,  so  help  me  Heaven,  I will  continue  to  do 
it  as  long  as  I live,  though  a score  of  mobs  may  howl  and 
madden  for  my  blood,  and  though  some  good  citizens,  even 
the  oldest  of  my  personal  and  political  friends,  hurried 
away  by  their  own  roused  feelings,  may  deem  themselves 
called  on  to  join  in  the  warfare  against  me.  When  I cease 
to  be  the  advocate  of  law  and  order,  may  I cease  to  live.” 

At  Paducah,  Ky.,  another  brilliant  banquet  was  given 
him,  on  which  occasion  he  said : 


28 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


“ Fellow-citizens,  I am  returning  to  my  home,  after  an 
absence  of  two  months.  I have  been  sojourning  in  Ten- 
nessee and  Arkansas.  I have  been  received  in  those  States 
by  both  political  parties  with  a warmth  of  cordiality  never, 
perhaps,  shown  before  to  an  editor  in  any  section  of  our 
country,  even  by  his  own  party  alone.  The  citizens  of 
Memphis,  without  distinction  of  party,  and  the  citizens  of 
Little  Rock,  have  honored  me  with  public  dinners;  and  the 
citizens  of  other  towns  through  which  I have  passed  have, 
without  distinction  of  party,  proffered  me  similar  honors; 
and  the  citizens  of  various  towns  that  I have  not  visited  at 
all  have  tendered  to  me  the  same  compliment.  At  every 
step  of  my  progress  I have  been  greeted  with  the  warmest 
acclamations.  My  tour,  undertaken  on  account  of  busi- 
ness, and  devoted  to  business,  has  been  like  a triumphal 
march.  I recount  these  things  with  exultation  and  pride, 
but  not  with  vanity.  I see  in  them  the  best  reward  of  a 
quarter  of  a century  of  arduous  toil.  I find  in  them  the 
best  recompense  of  all  that  I have  done  and  suffered.  I 
learn  from  them  that  honesty,  and  integrity,  and  conscien- 
tious devotion  to  the  right,  the  good,  and  the  true,  will 
sooner  or  later  be  acknowledged  and  applauded  by  all  gen- 
erous hearts.  I learn  from  them  the  important  lesson,  that 
an  honest  public  life  need  not  wait  for  its  appreciation  till 
death  has  consecrated  it  in  men’s  minds.” 

Mr.  Prentice  used  to  say,  however,  that  he  was  not  much 
of  a speaker;  but  if  the  people  wanted  to  hear  him  speak, 
they  must  subscribe  for  his  paper,  and  then  he  would  make 
them  three  or  four  speeches  a day,  and  perhaps  a little  more. 
He  said,  “ I have  oftentimes  written  until  my  fingers  were 
blistered,  and  perhaps  some  of  my  political  opponents  may 
think  that  if  I had  spoken  the  same  things  my  tongue  would 
have  blistered  too.” 

In  i860,  Mr.  Prentice  published  a volume  of  his  witti- 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


29 


cisms  under  the  title  of  “ Prenticeana.”  This  book  con** 
sists  principally  of  paragraphs  from  the  Louisville  Journal , 
and  a few  written  for  the  New-  York  Ledger . Mr.  Prentice 
had  for  years  been  repeatedly  solicited  to  allow  the  publi- 
cation of  such  a volume,  but  uniformly  declined,  because 
there  were  serious  objections  to  many  of  his  wittiest  para- 
graphs on  account  of  the  partisan  bitterness  expressed  in  them. 
He  finally  consented  to  publish  the  book,  from  a knowledge 
of  the  fact  that  if  he  did  not  collect  his  own  paragraphs, 
others  would,  and  make  the  selection  with  far  less  regard  to 
the  feelings  of  many  who  were  his  friends. 

Prenticeana  contains  about  three  hundred  pages.  There 
is  scarcely  a paragraph  in  it  that  is  not  characterized  by  the 
most  piercing  keenness  and  the  most  exquisite  aptness.  It 
does  not,  however,  contain  by  any  means  the  best  specimens 
of  Prentice’s  wit  and  humor,  but  there  is  probably  no  sim- 
ilar collection  in  any  language  that  will  begin  to  compare 
to  it.  It  is  used  as  a sort  of  text-book  by  many  of  our  most 
prominent  journalists.  Paragraphs  sparkling  with  all  the 
dewy  freshness  as  if  written  but  yesterday,  are  daily  copied 
from  it  in  almost  every  paper  in  the  country.  The  reader 
can  open  the  book  at  random,  and  he  will  find  on  every 
page  such  paragraphs  as  the  following: 

“ It  has  been  thought  strange  that  a dinner  to  which  a 
man  has  not  been  invited  is  generally  the  one  that  sits  the 
hardest  upon  his  stomach.” 

“ The  Eastern  Argus  says  that  ‘ the  Administration  goes 
on  swimmingly.*  It  has  tumbled  overboard,  and  must  go 
on  swimmingly,  or  not  at  all.” 

“ An  editor  in  Indiana  threatens  to  handle  us  without 
gloves.  We  would  certainly  never  think  of  handling  him 
without  at  least  three  pairs,  and  thick  ones  at  that.” 

“ Can’t  we  make  your  lover  jealous,  Miss?” — “ Oh, yes, 
sir,  I think  we  can,  if  we  put  our  heads  together.” 


30 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

“ What  would  you  do,  madam,  if  you  were  a gentle- 
man ? ” — ■ “ Sir,  what  would  you  do,  if  you  were  one  ? ” 

We  know  some  men,  who,  when  they  are  perplexed  in 
argument,  get  out  just  as  poor  debtors  sometimes  get  out 
of  jail  — they  swear  out.’ ’ 

“ The  doctors  ought  surely  to  be  able  to  escape  calumny. 
It  is  held  that  no  man  living  should  speak  ill  of  them ; and 
the  dead  can’t.” 

Some  of  the  best  and  sharpest  things  in  Prenticeana  have, 
in  spite  of  their  severity,  an  irresistible  charm  to  those  ac- 
quainted with  the  circumstances  that  drew  them  forth. 
For  instance  : 

“We  have  before  us  a copy  of  the  famous  Post-office 
circular  soliciting  contributions  for  the  Postmaster-General’s 
picture.  On  the  whole,  we  are  not  surprised  at  his  resort- 
ing to  this  expedient.  Having  expended  the  last  farthing 
in  his  possession,  what  is  he  to  do,  if  he  cannot  ‘ run  his 
face.’” 

A serious  correspondent  once  accused  Mr.  Prentice  of 
having  too  much  levity.  Mr.  Prentice  reminded  him  of 
the  proverb:  “The  most  solemn  of  birds  is  an  owl,  the 
most  solemn  of  fishes  an  oyster,  the  most  solemn  of  beasts 
an  ass,  and  the  most  solemn  of  men  an  ass  also.” 

This  application  is  particularly  fine  ; but  it  is  hardly  as 
fine  as  that  which  follows : 

“The  editor  of  the  Advertiser  says  that  he  was  the  first 
to  apply  to  General  Harrison  the  title  of  the  ‘ Hero  of 
Tippecanoe,’  and  that  he  applied  it  ironically. 

“The  title  of  the  Lion-Hearted  was  first  given  to  King 
Richard  by  his  own  harlequin  ; yet  it  was  worn  most 
proudly.  Though  given  by  a fool,  it  was  borne  by  a hero.” 

Mr.  Prentice’s  reply  to  the  following  is  hard  to  beat : 


L GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  31 

“ ‘The  editor  of  the  Journal  said,  he  had  caught  us;  but 
he  finds  he  has  caught  it.’  — Exchange . 

“Yes,  we  mistook  your  gender:  we  stand  corrected.” 

Some  of  the  paragraphs  in  Prenticeana  are  full  of  the 
deepest  feeling  and  the  most  exquisite  imagery,  and  burst 
upon  the  senses  like  the  beauty  of  Angelo’s  statue  of  Sun- 
rise. For  instance : 

“When  all  around  us  is  dark,  the  hidden  glories  of 
heaven  may  be  caught  in  a tear  trembling  upon  the  eyelid, 
and  pictured  beautifully  and  vividly  upon  the  soul.” 

“ The  song  of  the  poet,  like  that  of  his  companion,  the 
nightingale,  bursts  sweetest  from  the  bosom  of  the  wilder- 
ness.” 

The  truth  and  philosophy  of  the  following  cannot  fail 
to  attract  the  attention  of  the  reader : 

“The  most  smiling  countenance  oftentimes  masks  the 
most  dangerous  temper.  The  most  terrible  thunderbolt 
we  ever  saw  was  shot  from  a cloud  arched  by  a beautiful 
rainbow.” 

“We  are  often  asked  why  it  is  that  so  many  married 
women  of  genius  are  unhappy  in  their  domestic  relations. 
It  can  only  be  because  they  choose  unwisely.  What  could 
be  expected  from  the  mating  of  the  eagle  with  the  barn- 
door fowl  ? ” 

Colonel  Robert  Kelley,  the  able  and  accomplished  editor 
of  the  Louisville  Commercial , in  speaking  of  the  new  edi- 
tion of  Prenticeana , just  published  by  Claxton,  Remsen 
and  Haffelfinger,  says:  “This  book  embodies  the  mani- 
festations of  that  side  of  Mr.  Prentice’s  character  through 
which  he  is  best  known  to  the  world,  and  by  which  he  will 
be  best  remembered.  His  journalistic  work  was  that  to 
which  he  gave  his  heart  and  soul,  and  by  it  he  won  his 


32 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


high  position.  Such  work  is  usually  fleeting,  and  the  fame 
of  the  journalist  usually  dies  with  the  personal  recollections 
of  his  contemporaries.  We  are  glad  that,  by  such  a book 
as  this,  posterity  has  a chance  to  know  and  estimate  the 
powers  of  a man  whose  pen  was  a force  that  made  him, 
under  all  the  disadvantages  of  his  labor,  part  of  the  history 
of  his  time,  without  the  study  of  which  it  cannot  be  properly 
understood.  Mr.  Prentice  introduced  into  the  journalism 
of  the  English  language  the  wit  and  sprightliness  hereto- 
fore appropriated  by  the  French;  and  he  has  carried  it  to 
a perfection  and  scattered  it  through  his  work  with  a pro- 
fusion never  equalled  by  any  of  his  French  exemplars,  or 
his  English  or  American  imitators.” 

This  conscientious  truthfulness,  and  this  keen  apprecia- 
tion of  merit,  and  this  noble  and  generous  manner  of  award- 
ing it  to  a political  opponent,  will  help  account  for  the 
almost  universal  popularity  of  Colonel  Kelley’s  paper  in  one 
of  the  strongest  and  most  intensely  Southern  districts  in 
the  country. 

On  one  occasion,  an  individual,  who  possessed  in  a 
high  degree  the  accomplishment  of  whistling,  had  bor- 
rowed a sum  of  money  from  Mr.  Prentice,  and  was  dis- 
honest enough  not  to  return  it.  The  two  happened  to  meet, 
some  time  afterward,  at  my  house,  when  the  subject  of 
whistling  was  brought  up,  and  the  fellow,  wishing  to  make 
known  his  accomplishment,  said:  “ Mr.  Prentice,  did  you 
ever  hear  me  whistle?”  “ No,”  replied  Mr.  Prentice; 
“ but,  I suppose,  you  have  heard  me  whistle.” 

Mr.  Prentice  was  asked  to  expose  the  model  artists.  He 
replied  : “ They  expose  themselves.” 

Once  I went  with  him  to  hear  the  Bell  Ringers.  A lady 
performer,  dressed  in  all  the  paraphernalia  suited  to  the 
occasion,  sang  the  “ Grecian  Bend.”  In  quitting  the  stage, 
bhe  stooped  a little  to  avoid  the  fall  of  the  curtain,  when 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


<r 


33 


Mr.  Prentice  said:  “I  suppose,  that  is  the  end  of  part 
first.’1 ’ 

Many  of  Mr.  Prentice’s  paragraphs,  such  as  those  about 
General  Price  and  Colonel  Dick  Johnson,  were  too  smutty 
for  publication  in  a newspaper.  I am  sure  that  they  were 
not  to  his  taste ; but  he  seemed  to  think  that  the  exigencies 
of  Western  journalism  required  them.  This  kind  of  wit,  to- 
gether with  the  foolish  admiration  young  women  bestowed 
upon  him  in  society,  did  him  a great  deal  of  injury,  and 
gave  currency  to  any  number  of  scandalous  stories  about 
his  moral  character.  There  should  have  been  no  breath 
of  suspicion  against  his  fair  name,  for  he  was  as  pure  as  the 
Alpine  snow,  both  in  thought  and  action.  I have  never 
heard  anything  in  my  life  against  his  morals  that  I could 
not  trace  to  the  miserable  coinage  of  some  garrulous  old 
woman  or  some  contemptible  scandal-monger.  I lived  for 
many  years  within  a few  squares  of  his  house,  and  had 
every  opportunity  of  learning  the  truth  in  regard  to  him, 
and  I am  free  to  confess  that  I have  never  known  any  man 
of  purer  and  better  morals  than  he;  but  it  seems  that  it  is 
part  of  heaven’s  eternally  decreed  law  to  man,  that,  if  we 
are  as  chaste  as  ice  and  pure  as  snow,  we  cannot  escape 
calumny. 

At  the  beginning  of  the  late  war,  Mr.  Prentice  espoused 
the  cause  of  the  Union.  He  put  on  his  armor  and  went  to 
work  in  earnest.  He  infused  into  the  columns  of  his  paper 
all  the  ardor  and  enthusiasm  of  his  nature.  His  old 

friends,  many  of  whom  had  perilled  their  lives  for 
him,  remonstrated  with  him,  warned  him,  and  threatened 
him.  Even  his  two  sons,  whom  he  loved  with  a devotion 
almost  unequalled,  had  entered  the  Southern  army  to  bat- 
tle for  what  they  deemed  a sacred  duty  ; but,  undaunted, 
he  called  the  people  to  arms  and  to  consolidate  a mighty 
phalanx  against  an  unrighteous  rebellion.  He  did  more. 
He  used  all  the  power  and  eloquence  of  his  genius  to  per- 


34 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


suade  the  Southern  people  to  put  an  end  to  hostilities,  and 
to  pursue  a hopeless  struggle  no  longer. 

I need  not  dwell  further  upon  this  theme.  The  part  he 
enacted  has  passed  into  history.  Had  he  adopted  a differ- 
ent course,  the  most  fearful  consequences  to  the  Govern- 
ment might  have  been  the  result. 

Mr.  Prentice’s  eldest  son,  William  Courtland  Prentice, 
was  killed  at  the  battle  of  Augusta,  on  the  18th  of  Septem- 
ber, 1862.  Courtland  Prentice  was  not  only  a brave  and 
gallant  officer,  but  one  of  the  most  accomplished  gentle- 
men I ever  knew.  There  was  nothing  mean  or  little  about 
him.  He  was  a remarkably  fine  elocutionist.  His  voice 
was  music  itself.  He  could  paint  and  draw  with  the  skill 
of  a master.  It  was  impossible  for  any  one  to  be  in  his 
presence  without  being  impressed  with  his  fine  intellectual 
attainments.  Almost  every  one  who  knew  him  had  some 
word  of  praise  for  him.  At  times  he  was  rash  and  impul- 
sive, but  in  general  his  disposition  was  as  gentle  as  a 
child’s.  He  was  fond  of  the  chase,  and  of  adventures  of 
the  most  dangerous  character.  His  bravery  and  daring 
were  perhaps  never  surpassed.  He  inherited  his  father’s 
poetic  talent,  but  his  restless  disposition  did  not  allow  him 
to  cultivate  it.  While  in  Texas,  he  wrote  two  beautiful 
poems,  “ The  Hunter  ” and  “ The  Gift,”  which  Mr.  Pren- 
tice republished  in  the  Journal  in  one  of  his  tributes  to  his 
memory,  to  illustrate  his  fondness  for  forest  life.  In  1858, 
there  appeared  in  the  Journal  a thrilling  account  of  an  ad- 
venture of  Courtland  Prentice’s  into  the  maelstrom  of  the 
Mammoth  Cave.  His  name  was  not  mentioned  in  the 
article,  but  nearly  all  his  friends  knew  who  was  meant.  The 
owners  of  the  cave  tried  for  years  to  get  some  one  to  go 
down  into  the  maelstrom,  but  no  one  was  willing  to  under- 
take it.  Stephen,  the  celebrated  guide,  who  was  deemed 
insensible  to  fear,  was  offered  six  hundred  dollars  to  at- 
tempt it ; but  he  said  that  there  was  not  enough  money  in 


<r 

GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  35 

the  whole  world  to  induce  him  to  undertake  it.  A distin- 
guished gentleman  from  Tennessee  had  himself  lowered 
down  by  a rope  a hundred  feet  into  this  awful  pit,  but 
at  that  distance  his  courage  failed,  and  he  could  not  be  in- 
duced to  repeat  the  experiment. 

Courtland  Prentice’s  adventure  is  thus  described  in  the 
article  to  which  I have  referred  : 

“ A couple  of  weeks  ago,  a young  gentleman  of  Louis- 
ville, who  never  trembled  at  mortal  peril,  being  at  the 
Mammoth  Cave  with  Professor  Wright,  of  our  city,  and 
others,  determined,  no  matter  what  the  dangers  might  be, 
to  explore  the  depths  of  the  maelstrom.  McProctor,  the 
enterprising  proprietor  of  the  cave,  sent  to  Nashville  and 
procured  a long  rope  of  great  strength  expressly  for  the 
purpose.  The  rope  and  some  necessary  timbers  were 
borne  by  the  guides  and  others  to  the  point  of  exploration. 
The  arrangements  being  soon  completed,  the  rope,  with 
a heavy  fragment  of  rock  affixed  to  it,  was  let  down  and 
swung  to  and  fro  to  dislodge  any  loose  rocks  that  would 
be  likely  to  fall  at  the  touch.  Several  were  thus  dislodged, 
and  the  long-continued  reverberations,  rising  up  like  dis- 
tant thunder  from  below,  proclaimed  the  depth  of  the  hor- 
rid chasm.  Then  the  young  hero  of  the  occasion,  with 
several  hats  drawn  over  his  head  to  protect  it  as  far  as  pos- 
sible against  any  masses  falling  from  above,  and  with  a 
light  in  his  hand,  and  the  rope  fastened  around  his  body, 
took  his  place  over  the  awful  pit,  and  directed  the  half 
dozen  men,  who  held  the  end  of  the  rope,  to  let  him 
down  into  the  Cimmerian  gloom. 

“ We  have  heard  from  his  own  lips  an  account  of  his 
descent.  Occasionally  masses  of  earth  and  rock  went 
whizzing  past,  but  none  struck  him.  Thirty  or  forty  feet 
from  the  top  he  saw  a ledge,  from  which,  as  he  judged  by 
appearances,  two  or  three  avenues  led  off  in  different  direc- 
tions. About  a hundred  feet  from  the  top,  a cataract  from 


3<5 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


the  side  of  the  pit  went  rushing  down  the  abyss,  and,  as 
he  was  in  the  midst  of  the  spray,  he  felt  some  apprehen- 
hension  that  his  light  would  be  extinguished  ; but  his  care 
prevented  This.  He  was  landed  at  the  bottom  of  the  pit, 
a hundred  and  ninety  feet  from  the  top.  He  found  it 
almost  perfectly  circular,  about  eighteen  feet  in  diameter, 
with  a small  opening  at  one  point,  leading  to  a fine  cham- 
ber of  no  great  extent.  He  found  on  the  floor  beautiful 
specimens  of  black  silex  of  immense  size,  vastly  larger 
than  were  ever  discovered  in  any  other  part  of  the  Mam- 
moth Cave,  and  also  a multitude  of  exquisite  formations  as 
pure  and  white  as  virgin  snow.  Making  himself  heard, 
with  great  effort,  by  his  friends,  he  at  length  asked  them 
to  pull  him  partly  up,  intending  to  stop  on  the  way  and 
explore  a cave  that  he  had  observed  opening  about  forty 
feet  above  the  bottom  of  the  pit.  Reaching  the  mouth  of 
that  cave,  he  swung  himself  with  much  exertion  into  it, 
and,  holding  the  end  of  the  rope  in  his  hand,  he  incau- 
tiously let  it  go,  and  it  swung  out  apparently  beyond  his 
reach.  The  situation  was  a fearful  one,  and  his  friends 
above  could  do  nothing  for  him.  Soon,  however,  he  made 
a hook  of  the  end  of  his  lamp,  and,  by  extending  himself 
as  far  over  the  verge  as  possible  without  falling,  he  suc- 
ceeded in  securing  the  rope.  Fastening  it  to  a rock,  he 
followed  the  avenue  one  hundred  and  fifty  or  two  hun- 
dred yards,  to  a point  where  he  found  it  blocked  by  an  im- 
passable avalanche  of  rock  and  earth.  Returning  to  the 
mouth  of  this  cave,  he  beheld  an  almost  exactly  similar 
mouth  of  another  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  pit ; but,  not 
being  able  to  swing  himself  into  it,  he  refastened  the  rope 
around  his  body,  suspended  himself  again  over  the  abyss, 
and  shouted  to  his  friends  to  raise  him  to  the  top.  The 
pull  was  an  exceedingly  severe  one,  and  the  rope,  being 
ill-adjusted  around  his  body,  gave  him  the  most  excruciat- 
ing pain.  But  soon  his  pain  was  forgotten  in  a new  and 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


37 


. dreadful  peril.  When  he  was  ninety  feet  from  the  mouth 
of  the  pit  and  one  hundred  from  the  bottom,  swaying 
and  singing  in  mid-air,  he  heard  rapid  and  excited  words 
of  horror  and  alarm  above,  and  soon  learned  that  the 
rope  by  which  he  was  upheld  had  taken  fire  from  the  fric- 
tion of  the  timber  over  which  it  passed.  Several  moments 
of  awful  suspense  to  those  above,  and  still  more  awful  to 
him  below,  ensued.  To  them  and  to  him  a fatal  and  in- 
stant catastrophe  seemed  inevitable.  But  the  fire  was  extin- 
guished with  a bottle  of  water  belonging  to  himself,  and 
then  the  party  above,  though  almost  exhausted  by  their 
labor,  succeeded  in  drawing  him  to  the  top.  He  was  as 
calm  and  self-possessed  as  upon  his  entrance  into  the  pit ; 
but  all  of  his  companions,  overcome  by  fatigue,  sank  down 
upon  the  ground,  and  his  friend,  Professor  Wright,  from 
over-exertion  and  excitement,  fainted,  and  remained  for 
some  time  insensible. 

“ The  young  adventurer  left  his  name  carved  in  the  depths 
of  the  maelstrom  — the  name  of  the  first  and  only  person 
that  ever  gazed  upon  its  mysteries.” 

The  death  of  this  noble-hearted  youth,  under  the  peculiar 
circumstances  attending  it,  fell  heavily  upon  Mr.  Prentice. 
The  father,  in  attempting  to  give  expression  to  his  feelings  in 
the  following  tribute,  has,  indeed,  mingled  the  flowers  of  a 
beautiful  spirit  with  the  ashes  of  his  beloved  dead. 

“ Obituary.  — William  Courtland  Prentice  died  on  Mon- 
day last,  at  Augusta,  Kentucky,  of  wounds  received  in  the 
conflict  at  that  place  on  the  preceding  Saturday.  He  perished 
in  the  cause  of  the  rebellion.  It  is  not  in  the  columns  of  a 
newspaper,  it  is  only  in  the  family  or  in  the  hush  of  solitude 
that  the  emotions  of  a parent  over  such  an  event  should  have 
utterance.  The  tears  of  weeping  eyes,  and  the  fast-trickling 
drops  of  bleeding  hearts,  are  not  for  the  public  gaze.  The 
deepest  agonies  should  be  content  to  fold  their  sombre  wings 
4 


33  . STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

in  the  soul.  Consolation  could  not  come  from  the  world’s 
sympathy ; it  can  be  looked  for  only  from  God  and  his 
angel  Time. 

“Nay,  there  are  griefs  that  time  itself  has  no  power  to 
allay  or  soothe  — griefs  that,  like  running  streams,  are  deep- 
ening their  channels  forever. 

“ William  Courtland  Prentice  was  no  common  young 
man.  He  was  remarkable  in  his  powers  and  in  his  tempera- 
ment. A model  of  manly  beauty,  he  had  extraordinary  in- 
tellectual energy,  a strong  thirst  for  strange  and  curious 
knowledge,  and  a deep  passion  for  all  that  is  sublime  and 
beautiful  in  poetry  and  nature.  He  was  generous,  manly, 
high-hearted,  and  of  a courage  that  no  mortal  peril,  come  in 
what  form  it  might,  could  daunt.  He  exulted  in  looking 
destruction  face  to  face  in  all  its  ways.  He  loved  wild  and 
dangerous  adventures  for  the  very  danger’s  sake.  His 
eagle  spirit  lived  among  the  mountain  crags  and  shouted 
back  to  the  shouts  of  the  storm.  Although  kind,  unselfish, 
and  humane,  he  was  impetuous,  passionate,  and  of  uncon- 
querable prejudice.  He  was  not  unfrequently  unjust  in  his 
judgments,  and  he  permitted  nothing  to  stand  between  him 
and  the  execution  of  his  purposes. 

“ This  young  man,  if  he  had  always  directed  his  energies 
judiciously,  could  have  made  himself  a distinguished  orna- 
ment in  any  profession  of  life.  He  might  have  been  an 
able  and  honored  statesman  in  the  service  of  the  republic. 
But  an  intense  Southern  sympathy,  in  spite  of  the  arguments, 
the  remonstrances,  and  the  entreaties  of  those  who  dearly 
loved  him,  made  him  an  active  rebel  against  his  country. 
And  after  a brief  five  weeks’  service  in  the  rebel  ranks,  he 
fell,  soon  to  breathe  out  his  fiery  life,  receiving  meanwhile, 
far  away  from  his  family,  the  kindly  ministrations  of  those 
against  whose  cause  his  strong  right  arm  had  been  raised. 
Oh,  if  he  had  fallen  in  his  country’s  service,  fallen  with  his 
burning  eyes  fixed  in  love  and  devotion  upon  the  flag  that 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


39 


for  more  than  three-fourths  of  a century  has  been  a star  of 
worship  to  his  ancestors,  his  early  death,  though  still  terri- 
ble, might  have  been  borne  by  a father’s  heart.  But,  alas  ! 
the  reflection  that  he  fell  in  armed  rebellion  against  that 
glorious  old  banner,  now  the  emblem  of  the  greatest  and 
holiest  cause  the  world  ever  knew,  is  full  of  desolation  and 
almost  of  despair.  And  yet  we  shall  love  to  think  of  Court- 
land  Prentice,  that  brave  and  noble  though  misguided  youth, 
during  the  little  remnant  of  our  lives.  Our  love  for  him, 
undimmed  by  tears  and  grief,  is  and  will  remain  an  ama- 
ranthine flower  upon  the  grave  of  our  buried  years.” 

Mr.  Prentice,  a few  days  after  the  publication  of  the 
above,  again  referred  to  the  loss  of  his  son,  in  which  he 
gave  the  subjoined  account  of  his  life  : 

“ A Brief  Sketch.  — We  must  beg  the  indulgence  of  our 
readers  while  we  say  a few  more  words  in  the  memory  of 
our  poor  lost  son.  There  were  probably  no  materials  in  his 
young  life  for  a biographical  sketch,  and  yet  we  seem  to  our- 
selves to  be  constrained  to  relate  a few  little  passages  in  that 
life,  although  in  doing  so  we  feel  as  if  we  were  folding  back 
the  shroud  from  his  pale  dead  face. 

“ William  Courtland  Prentice,  when  a child,  was  put  to  the 
boarding-school  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Leacock,  ten  miles  in  the 
country,  and  that  excellent  divine  assured  us  that  he  had  a 
strong  religious  element  in  his  nature. 

“ He  next  went,  at  the  age  of  perhaps  eleven  or  twelve, 
to  the  military  school  at  Shelbyville,  and  when  that  insti- 
tution was  removed  to  a point  near  Frankfort,  he  accom- 
panied it.  He  did  not  devote  himself  to  study,  yet  he  ex- 
hibited capabilities  and  powers  that  showed  strikingly  what 
he  was  capable  of  accomplishing.  In  sword-play  and  other 
' manly  exercises  he  excelled  nearly  all  around  him.  The 
accomplished  professor  of  the  sword-exercise  often  told  us 
that  he  could  make  himself  unequalled  in  America  in  the 
use  of  that  weapon. 


4o 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


“He  left  the  military  school  from  an  uncontrollable 
caprice,  and  could  not  be  prevailed  upon  to  continue  his 
education  either  there  or  at  any  other  institution.  A choice 
was  given  him  among  all  the  seminaries  and  colleges  of 
the  country,  but  he  accepted  none,  for  he  was  evidently  dis- 
gusted with  school  discipline,  and  would  not  submit  to  it. 

“ He  shut  himself  up  in  his  own  room  at  his  father’s  house, 
always  passing  the  night  in  reading,  poring  over  numerous 
strange  specimens  of  natural  history,  and  cherishing  a de- 
voted love  for  solitude,  but  sometimes  getting  a few  friends 
around  him,  and  then  making  himself  the  life  and  soul  of 
the  company,  literally  running  riot  in  hilarity  and  joyous- 
ness. In  wild  and  rollicking  fun  .vve  never  knew  his  equal. 
Sometimes  he  would  read  his  favorite  poets  to  his  friends, 
and,  in  the  most  excited  passages,  his  voice  rang  out 
like  the  sound  of  a trumpet.  He  was  naturally  an  actor  of 
* consummate  power,  and  often  used  his  talents  for  the  amuse- 
ment of  those  around  him.  As  a natural  vocalist  and  mu- 
sician, he  had  perhaps  no  superior.  As  an  artist  he  could 
have  attained  distinguished  excellence.  As  a public  speaker 
he  would  have  been  eminently  successful,  for  he  had  strong 
sense,  impetuous  thought,  great  power  of  language,  and  that 
excitable  temperament  which  would  have  given  vehemence 
to  his  utterances. 

“He loved  to  seek  the  wildest  and  loneliest  portions  of 
Kentucky.  Repeatedly  he  went  far  up  among  the  bald  and 
desolate  crags  of  the  Dix  River,  a region  haunted  by  the 
bear,  wildcat,  and  catamount.  The  piercing  scream  of  the 
panther,  even  then,  was  a sound  of  rapture  to  his  ear.  He 
was  ever  in  search  of  natural  curiosities,  and  he  discovered 
and  explored  caves  previously  unknown,  in  all  probability, 
to  any  man  of  our  generation;  and  in  one  of  them  he  found  ^ 
immense  numbers  of  human  bones  that  seemed  to  him  to 
have  belonged  to  a different  order  of  beings  from  any  now 
on  the  continent. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


4* 


....  “ Between  three  and  four  years  ago  we  proposed 
to  Courtland  Prentice,  as  he  had  no  regular  vocation  here, 
and  did  not  seem  inclined  to  any,  to  go  to  Texas  for  the 
purchase  of  a stock-farm.  The  idea  pleased  him,  and  he 
adopted  it.  He  went  to  New  Braunfels,  at  the  foot  of  the 
mountains  of  Texas,  and  sojourned  there  nearly  two  years; 
but  he  found  no  farm  that  pleased  him,  for  the  water  was 
fearfully  scarce  in  that  region.  He  had  not  been  there 
long  before  he  and  a young  American  friend  were  invited 
to  a German  ball,  almost  the  whole  population  being  Ger- 
man. At  the  ball  his  young  friend  became  involved  in  a 
quarrel,  and  was  knocked  down  and  badly  beaten.  Court- 
land,  who  had  the  strength  of  a young  Hercules,  rushed 
through  the  thick  crowd,  took  his  fallen  and  unconscious 
friend  under  one  arm,  and  with  the  other,  whilst  bearing 
him  toward  the  door,  swung  a glittering  bowie-knife  around 
him  as  if  he  had  been  a destroying  angel.  The  crowd  re- 
coiled precipitately  before  him,  and  he  would  have  borne 
off  his  victim  friend,  if  some  of  the  ruffians  had  not  stolen 
behind  him  and  felled  him  by  a terrible  blow  of  a poker 
upon  his  head.  Then  the  brave  youth  lay  like  a dead  man, 
and  the  miscreants,  after  locking  the  door,  struck  him  over 
the  head  with  whatever  they  could  seize,  cutting  him  in 
several  places  to  the  skull,  and  would  have  killed  him  upon 
the  spot,  if  the  police,  hearing  the  tumult,  had  not  broken 
down  the  door  and  rushed  to  his  rescue.  An  indictment 
was  found  against  four  or  five  of  them,  but  he  refused  to 
give  a deposition  against  them,  saying  that  as  soon  as  he 
should  be  able  to  leave  his  room  he  would  take  redress  into 
his  own  hands.  When  he  left  his  room  they  were  not  to  be 
found ; they  had  fled  from  retribution. 

“ We  visited  him  in  Texas  in  April,  i860,  and  passed  sev- 
eral days  with  him.  He  invited  us  and  a fine  young  friend 
of  his  to  go  with  him  into  the  wilderness  upon  a hunting 
excursion  for  a few  days,  and  the  invitation  was  accepted. 

4 * 


42 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


After  getting  a few  miles  from  town,  he  said,  ‘ Father,  be- 
fore we  go  farther,  I want  to  show  you  how  I can  shoot  my 
rifle;  I am  the  best  shot  in  Texas/  He  chose  his  position, 
and  asked  us  to  go  off  about  seventy-five  or  a hundred 
yards  and  throw  a stone  through  the  air.  We  said  to  him 
that  he  could  not  possibly  hit  it.  ‘As  certainly/  said  he, 
‘as  I touch  the  trigger/  A stone  as  large  as  a turkey’s 
egg,  at  about  seventy-five  yards’  distance,  was  thrown,  and 
scarcely  had  it  been  a second  in  the  air  when  it  was  knocked 
ten  yards.  The  experiment  was  repeated  with  the  same  re- 
sult. His  weapon  was  an  old  Kentucky  rifle  of  great  weight 
and  length,  that  he  had  taken  with  him  from  home.  Dur- 
ing the  whole  excursion,  which  extended  many  miles, 
through  a region  infested  by  all  kinds  of  wild  animals,  and 
often  visited  by  the  Indians,  who  were  at  that  time  becom- 
ing very  troublesome,  stealing  horses  and  committing  mur- 
ders, he  never  missed  anything,  sitting,  running,  or  flying, 
that  he  fired  at  with  his  trusty  weapon.  Though  he  had 
been  reared  most  tenderly,  no  backwoodsman  ever  bore 
more  cheerfully  than  he  all  the  privations  and  hardships 
of  a forest  life.  Often,  as  we  were  informed,  he  went  forth 
alone  through  the  mountains  to  remain  days  and  nights, 
trusting  to  his  rifle  for  support,  wrapping  himself  in  his 
blanket  at  night,  with  a hair  rope  stretched  around  him  to 
keep  off  the  numerous  reptiles,  and  carrying  no  compass, 
but  relying  upon  his  own  keen  and  quick  observation  for 
finding  his  way  back. 

“While  in  Texas,  he  resolved  to  visit  some  of  the  States 
of  Mexico.  In  his  journey  from  New  Braunfels  to  those 
States,  he  and  his  faithful  mule  suffered  painful  privation. 
There  was  a great  drought,  and  the  watercourses,  very  few 
in  number,  were  dry.  His  thirst  was  terrible,  and  that  of 
his  poor  beast  no  less  so.  At  one  time  the  suffering  animal 
uttered  a groan  that  seemed  to  him  almost  human.  He 
leaped  to  the  ground,  and,  though  he  had  but  a pint  of  water, 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


43 


he  gave  her  one-half  of  it,  and  threw  away  his  rifle,  the  old 
friend  he  so  dearly  loved,  that  she  might  have  the  less 
weight  to  bear  up  under. 

“ When  at  length  he  came  to  water,  it  was  a small  stand- 
ing pool  with  a dead  and  decaying  antelope  in  it ; but,  loath- 
some as  it  was,  he  drank  of  it  copiously.  His  experiences 
among  the  Mexicans,  as  related  to  his  friends,  were  highly 
interesting,  but  we  will  not  record  them  here. 

“ After  leaving  Mexico,  he  returned  to  Kentucky.  A fine 
farm  was  given  him  near  the  mouth  of  Salt  River,  and  fur- 
nished with  everything  that  a farmer  could  desire.  No  want 
of  his  in  connection  with  it  was  left  unsupplied.  He  seemed 
well  pleased  for  a time ; but  a farmer’s  life  was  not  to  his 
taste.  Besides,  the  rebellion  broke  out,  and  his  feelings  were 
intensely  and  fiercely  Southern.  With  his  whole  soul  he 
longed  to  be  in  the  war,  yet  he  keenly  and  deeply  felt  that 
much  was  due  to  the  position  of  his  father,  and  that  to 
abandon  a home  provided  for  him  at  no  inconsiderable 
expense  would  seem  ingratitude.  For  more  than  a year 
we  were  witnesses  of  the  struggle  going  on  in  his  mind.  It 
was  fearful.  It  was  unceasing.  It  made  him  miserable. 
It  almost  unfitted  him  for’nearly  all  his  daily  duties.  Death 
at  any  moment  would  have  been  welcome  to  him.  He 
could  not  sit  or  stand  still.  There  was  in  his  soul  a spirit 
of  wild  unrest.  Even  in  the  company  of  his  friends  he 
walked  to  and  fro  like  an  imprisoned  lion.  We  understood 
him,  and  deeply  pitied  him.  We  often  tried  to  dissuade 
him  from  all  thoughts  of  participation  in  the  rebellion  ; 
and  we  had  strong  reason  to  believe  that,  whatever  agony  it 
might  cost  him,  he  would  follow  our  counsel.  We  are  even 
now  confident  that  he  would  have  done  so  but  for  the  ma- 
lign and  fiendish  influences  of  disloyal  and  bad  men  around 
him. 

“ Courtland  was  in  the  rebel  service  only  five  weeks.  We 
do  net  hear  of  his  having  been  in  more  than  two  or  three 


44 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


skirmishes,  and  we  hope  that  no  loyal  blood  was  upon  his 
hands.  He  fell  at  Augusta,  at  the  head  of  the  men,  in  the 
early  part  of  the  fight,  pierced  by  two  minie  balls,  one 
of  which  passed  through  his  lungs.  The  defenders  of 
Augusta  used  no  minie  balls,  and  he  himself  said,  on  his 
death-bed,  that  he  was  undoubtedly  shot  through  mistake  by 
his  own  friends  in  his  rear,  the  fatal  wound  being  given  while 
he  was  passing  rapidly  from  one  point  to  another.  For  three 
hours  he  lay  where  he  fell,  a dead  comrade  close  beside  him, 
and  he  did  not  think  any  one  would  come  to  him  in  his  life. 
At  the  end  of  those  long  hours,  and  while  the  rebel  forces 
were  yet  in  the  town,  a kind  and  merciful  Union  lady,  upon 
whose  head  we  have  invoked  many  blessings,  had  him 
brought  to  her  house  by  rebel  hands,  without  knowing  who 
he  was.  The  men  who  bore  him  there  wept  as  they  left 
him,  for  he  was  much  endeared  to  them,  and  one  of  them 
has  since  written  us  a letter  which  shows  that  tender  hearts 
may  beat  in  rebel  bosoms.  The  sufferer  survived  forty  - 
eight  hours,  receiving  all  the  attention  of  two  physicians 
constantly  — the  rebel  physician  was  lef  t behind  to  attend  him 
- — and  the  gentlest  and  most  unremitting  assiduities  that  a 
most  excellent  family  could  bestow.  When  he  was  told  that 
some  of  the  rebels  were  robbing  the  stores  and  burning  the 
town,  he  exclaimed,  ‘ Fiends ! devils ! oh,  I came  not  here 
for  this!  I have  in  no  instance  touched  any  man’s  property 
or  offered  violence  to  any  citizen.  We  have  good  men 
among  us,  but  we  have  also  very  bad  ones.’  Though  his 
agonies  day  and  night  were  increasing,  he  uttered  no  groan, 
and  he  refused  to  take  morphine,  lest  he  might  not  be  awake 
and  conscious  at  his  death.  He  was  asked  if  he  was  willing 
to  trust  the  Saviour  of  mankind.  ‘ I know,’  said  he,  4 that 
he  can  save  me,  and  I believe  that  he  will.’  It  is  our  earnest 
heart-trust  that  during  the  three  awful  hours  that  he  lay 
upon  the  ground,  expecting  never  more  to  commune  with 
mortal  men,  the  strong  religious  element  spoken  of  by  his 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  45 

early  teacher  was  roused  in  his  soul,  and  that  he  was  com- 
muning not  in  vain  with  his  God. 

“ For  him  the  king  of  terrors  had  no  terror.  To  all 
around  him  his  calmness  seemed  sublime.  It  may  have  been 
pride,  it  may  have  been  stoicism,  it  may  have  been  philoso- 
phy: we  hope  and  believe  it  was  religion. 

“ William  Courtland  Prentice  was  proud,  imperious,  pas- 
sionate, and  at  times  violent,  but  he  was  kind,  generous,  hon- 
orable, humane,  charitable,  and  loving.  No  weeds  of  bit- 
terness ever  grew  in  his  manly  bosom.  He  was  open-hearted 
and  open-handed.  His  heart  was  as  gentle  as  mercy’s  own. 
No  want  that  he  could  relieve  was  ever  unrelieved.  His 
chivalry  was  unsurpassed  by  that  of  the  best  knights  of  Pales- 
tine. But,  alas ! he  is  dust  and  ashes  now.  His  heart  of  fire 
is  cold.  His  eagle  eye  is  dim.  His  strong  arm  lies  nerve- 
less at  his  side.  Soon  his  name  must  be  a sound  unknown 
among  men.  And  if  the  angel  of  his  country  weeps  over 
his  early  tomb,  she  weeps  over  it  as  that  of  a misguided  and 
erring  child,  who  among  better  influences  might  have  won 
a place  among  his  land’s  heroes  and  patriots.  We  lay  this 
wreath  of  withered  flowers  upon  the  tomb  of  the  loved  and 
lost,  and  turn  sadly  back  to  desolate  life.” 

The  position  Mr.  Prentice  took  in  the  celebrated 
Ward  trial  made  him  a great  many  enemies.  The  public 
indignation  against  those  who  offered  a word  in  favor  of 
the  murderer,  was  great  in  the  extreme.  Mr.  Ward’s  resi- 
dence had  been  mobbed,  and  one  of  the  lawyers  who  de- 
fended him  was  driven  from  the  city,  and  had  his  house 
pelted  with  stones  and  rotten  eggs. 

Mr.  Prentice  wrote  a number  of  articles  in  favor  of 
Ward,  and  was  denounced  very  bitterly  for  them,  even 
for  many  years  afterward.  It  would,  I think,  be  doing  him 
injustice  not  to  give  his  reasons  for  the  course  he  adopted. 
He  said  : 


46 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


“ We  have  lived  for  years  in  the  interchange  of  kind- 
ness with  Mr.  Ward  and  his  wife  and  children,  and  have 
uniformly  regarded  him  as  the  man  who  would  be  most 
likely  to  stand  by  us  in  any  or  all  the  exigencies  of  fortune. 
Five  or  six  months  ago  our  office  was  burned  down,  and 
our  loss  was  a heavy  one  for  us.  Within  two  hours  after 
the  disaster,  we  received  a letter  from  Robert  J.  Ward,  con- 
doling with  us  most  earnestly,  and  placing  whatever  sum 
of  money  we  might  need  at  our  disposal,  assuring  us  that 
we  would  lay  him  under  obligation  by  accepting  it,  and 
specifying,  as  the  only  condition,  that,  if  we  did  him  the 
favor  to  accept  it,  the  matter  must  ever  remain  a secret 
between  him  and  us.  We  could  not  take  the  money,  but 
the  whole  tone  of  Mr.  W.’s  letter  moved  us  even  to  tears. 
Only  two  or  three  days  afterward,  we  called  at  his  house, 
and  found  him  in  tears,  utterly  bowed  and  crushed  with 
grief  on  account  of  his  son  having  shot  Mr.  W.  H.  G.  But- 
ler. There  are  beings  calling  themselves  men,  who  can 
pretend  that  it  was  our  duty,  under  such  circumstances,  to 
hasten  back  to  our  office  and  proclaim  through  our  col- 
umns that  his  soil  was  guilty  of  a horrible  murder,  and  in- 
voke public  wrath  and  indignation  upon  the  crime  and  its 
perpetrator.  If  we  had  been  capable  of  such  a thing, 
we  should  have  deserved  to  be  driven  forth  from  among 
our  kind,  a wanderer  and  an  exile  in  the  desert  or  in  the 
wilderness.  It  was  no  more  our  duty,  thus  situated,  to  de- 
nounce Matt.  F.  Ward  as  guilty  of  murder  than  it  would 
have  been  had  we  borne  to  him  the  relation  of  a father. 
There  are  other  ties  besides  those  of  blood  which  all  good 
men  recognize  — there  are  other  relations  than  those  of 
kindred  which  are  held  sacred  by  every  heart  that  is  any- 
thing more  than  a mere  muscle.” 

In  person,  Mr.  Prentice  was  above  the  medium  height. 
His  head  was  finely  shaped  ; his  figure  was  erect,  but  his 
exceedingly  sloping  shoulders  gave  him  rather  a drooping 


GEORGE  D . PRENTICE. 


47 


appearance.  He  was  dignified  and  elegant  in  his  bearing, 
and  graceful  and  natural  in  all  his  movements  and  actions. 
His  hands  and  feet  were  unusually  small  ; his  face  was 
round  and  full ; his  features  were  irregular  but  not  homely. 
His  forehead  wras  broad  and  high,  and  awed  the  beholder 
by  its  expression  of  intellectual  vigor.  His  eyes  were  his 
finest  feature  ; they  were  of  a dark  brown  color,  rather 
small,  but  lustrous  and  full  of  strange  intelligence  — 

“ Deep  searching  seen,  and  seeing  from  afar.” 

His  voice  was  low-toned  and  persuasive,  but,  free  as  a 
fountain,  it  took  the  form  of  the  conduit  thought.  He 
was  one  of  the  finest  conversationists  I ever  heard.  It  can 
be  said  of  him,  as  was  said  of  the  little  child  in  the  fairy- 
story,  that  whenever  he  opened  his  mouth,  out  came  a pearl. 
He  delivered  no  monologues.  He  never  wearied  his  lis- 
teners, or  insulted  them  by  presuming  upon  their  ignorance. 
He  was  as  sparkling  and  brilliant  at  the  table  and  in  social 
circles  as  in  the  columns  of  his  paper.  The  richness  of 
his  language  was  only  equalled  by  the  wit,  humor,  and  phi- 
losophy of  his  thoughts  and  ideas.  His  words  rolled  over 
one  another  like  notes  of  music  upon  the  ear.  His  favorite 
poets  were  Virgil,  Milton,  Byron,  and  Shelley.  He  placed 
Virgil  even  above  Homer.  He  talked  more  of  Shelley  than 
ofByron,  and,  I believe,  saw  more  to  love  and  admire  in  him, 
both  as  a man  and  a poet.  I believe  he  thought  more  of 
Rousseau  than  of  any  other  French  author.  He  once  asked 
me  to  read  the  Novelle  Heloise.  “ But,  for  heaven’s  sake,” 
said  he,  “read  it  in  the  original  text.  There  is  a finesse 
about  Rousseau  that  cannot  be  translated.  ’ ’ Mr.  Prentice’s 
favorite  German  author  was  Jean  Paul  Richter.  He  had 
read  everything  from  his  pen.  He  was  as  familiar  with  his 
philosophy  as  with  his  humor  and  strange  conceits.  If  any 
one  ever  understood  Richter,  it  was  certainly  Mr.  Prentice. 
I never  heard  him  complain  of  mysticism  in  Richter.  He 


48 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


talked  about  “ Titan”  and  “Hesperus”  as  familiarly  as 
most  English  readers  do  of  the  novels  of  Scott  and  Dickens. 

I have  never  known  any  man  better  acquainted  with  the 
literature  of  the  Elizabethan  age  than  he.  There  is  probably 
nothing  recorded  in  the  lives  of  Shakspeare,  Bacon,  Jon- 
son,  Spenser,  Sidney,  Beaumont  and  Fletcher,  Webster, 
Middleton,  Decker,  Marlowe,  Hooker,  Rowley,  Chapman, 
Marston,  and  other  great  luminaries  in  that  great  epoch  of 
English  literature,  that  he  was  not  thoroughly  acquainted 
with.  His  knowledge  of  the  dramatic  works  of  Lyly  and 
Marlowe,  and  the  philosophical  works  of  Bacon,  Sir  Thomas 
Browne,  and  Jeremy  Taylor,  was  truly  wonderful.  How 
he  acquired  this  infinite  variety  of  knowledge  is  a mystery 
to  me;  but  he  did  acquire  it,  and  the  world  is  better  for  it. 
He  praised  enthusiastically  the  melody  and  dignity  of  Mar- 
lowe’s versification,  and  said  that  he  was  the  first  great 
English  author  who  substituted  blank  verse  for  the  rhymed 
couplets  in  the  drama. 

Mr.  Prentice  loved  to  talk  of  the  reign  of  Queen  Anne, 
of  Addison,  Pope,  Swift,  Steele,  De  Foe,  and  other  authors 
of  that  interesting  period,  and  to  contrast  them  with  the 
authors  of  the  golden  age. 

He  bestowed  the  highest  praise  on  the  poetry  of  Win- 
throp  Mackwortli  Praed.  He  said,  “ I am  glad  to  see  that 
Praed  is  becoming  more  and  more  appreciated  in  this 
country.  He  is  one  of  the  sweetest  poets  that  ever  sang. 
He  has  the  vision  and  the  faculty  divine.  His  humor  and 
pathos  and  irony  are  unsurpassed.” 

Mr.  Prentice’s  admiration  for  General  Albert  Pike  was 
unbounded.  He  often  praised  his  “ Hymns  to  the  Gods,” 
and  said  that  his  “ Ode  to  the  Mocking-Bird  ” was  inimit- 
able, and  that  his  “Old  Canoe  ” was  one  of  the  most  com- 
plete and  perfect  poems  in  the  language.  In  1857,  he  said, 
“General  Albert  Pike  is  well  known  by  reputation  to  the 
whole  country.  He  is  a good  man,  a true  man,  a brave 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


49 


man,  and  a great  man.  He  plays  with  great  thoughts  as 
Jove  might  be  supposed  to  have  played  with  thunderbolts. 
Take  him  all  in  all,  as  a lawyer,  a poet,  a politician,  an 
orator,  a statesman,  he  is  one  of  the  foremost  men  of  all 
the  world.”  On  the  occasion  of  Mrs.  Prentice’s  death, 
General  Pike  was  one  of  the  few  friends  to  whom  Mr. 
Prentice  looked  for  consolation. 

Mr.  Prentice  did  not  share  the  common  admiration  of 
his  countrymen  for  the  genius  of  Emerson.  He  said, 
“Everything  from  his  pen  seems  overstrained  and  artifi- 
cial. There  is  a want  of  originality  about  him  that  always 
affects  me  unpleasantly.  He  does  not  deserve  the  reputa- 
tion he  enjoys  as  an  essayist,  and  as  for  his  poetry,  it  is 
greatly  inferior  to  his  essays.” 

Mr.  Prentice  placed  Halleck  in  the  very  first  rank  of 
American  poets.  He  often  praised  his  “ Alnwick  Castle, 

“ Home  of  the  Percy’s  high-born  race,” 

and  dwelt  with  delight  upon  his  “Marco  Bozzaris”  and 
his  tribute  to  the  memory  of  Drake.  He  said,  on  the  occa- 
sion of  Halleck’ s death:  “He  was  one  of  the  great  poet- 
ical glories  of  our  land.  He  was  one  of  the  flowers,  the 
birds,  the  rainbows,  the  stars  of  our  literature.  His  soul 
was  a thing  of  eternal  beauty  and  music  and  sunshine. 
Everything  he  gave  to  the  world  is  perfect  in  its  kind. 
Each  poem  seemed  orbed  and  rounded  to  a star. 
There  may  be  a difference  of  opinion  as  to  the  works  of 
other  poets ; there  is  none  as  to  his.  The  circle  of  English 
poetry,  if  what  he  has  given  to  it  were  taken  away,  would 
be  indeed  incomplete.” 

Mr.  Prentice  was  deeply  attached  to  the  Hon.  H.  H. 
Skiles,  of  Kentucky.  He  said,  “I  regard  him  as  one  of 
the  ablest  men  in  the  State.  He  is  a man  of  great  bravery 
and  great  purity  of  character.  No  amount  of  temptation, 
let  it  come  in  what  form  it  may,  could  swerve  him  from  the 
5 


50 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


path  of  rectitude.  Truth  ever  shines  like  a star  upon  his 
breast.  There  is  no  honor  that  his  native  State  could  be- 
stow upon  him  that  he  would  not  wear  proudly.  There  is 
no  one  more  trustworthy  and  generous  than  he.  I love  to 
think  of  him  not  only  as  a lawyer,  a statesman,  and  a poli- 
tician, but  as  a man,  for  he  is  one  of  nature’s  noblemen.” 

John  J.  Piatt  was  Mr.  Prentice’s  amanuensis  for  several 
years.  The  warmest  personal  friendship  and  the  closest  in- 
timacy existed  between  them.  Mr.  Prentice  watched  Mr. 
Piatt’s  literary  career  with  almost  parental  love.  He  wel- 
comed everything  he  wrote  with  generous  and  enthusiastic 
praise.  I have  heard  him  say  that  his  poem,  “The  Strange 
Organist,”  would  have  reflected  honor  upon  Shelley  or 
Tennyson,  and  that  his  “ Morning  Street”  was  in  everyway 
a finer  poem  than  Willis’s  “Belfry  Pigeon.”  Mr.  Pren- 
tice also  said,  “lam  glad  to  see  that  Mr.  Piatt’s  poetry  is 
attracting  the  attention  in  Europe  it  deserves.  The  fact 
that  his  last  volume,  ‘Western  Windows,  and  Other 
Poems,’  has  been  favorably  received  by  the  London  Specta- 
tor and  the  Athenceum , and  other  English  periodicals, 
should  indeed  be  gratifying  to  the  friends  of  this  truly 
great  poet.”  Mr.  Prentice  was  much  pleased  with  the 
kind  and  affectionate  manner  in  which  Mr.  Piatt  dedicated 
one  of  his  books  to  him.  I give  the  dedication  below.  It 
is,  indeed,  a beautiful  tribute  of  affection  from  one  poet  to 
another. 

Cincinnati,  September,  1868. 

My  dear  Mr.  Prentice,  — I owe  you  many  of  those 
debts  that  one  friend  can  only  pay  another  (and  never  pay 
in  full)  out  of  his  heart;  please  to  think  my  dedication  of 
this  book  an  acknowledgment  of  them.  The  poems  in  the 
present  volume  have,  with  a few  exceptions,  been  under 
cover  (and  under  fire,  too,  for  that  matter)  before;  but 
they  are  here  massed,  so  to  speak, — “for  a general  re 
view,  doubtless,”  will  you  say? 

Many  of  the  pieces  in  this  collection  are  suggestive  to  me 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


51 

of  the  hours  when  I was  associated  with  you  in  a compan- 
ionship which  must  always  seem  very  dear  to  me  when  I 
recall  it ; this  is  a merit  which  I may  find  in  them  without 
blame,  I am  sure. 

With  many  wishes  for  your  health  and  happiness, 

I remain,  very  affectionately,  your  friend, 

j-  j.  p. 

George  D.  Prentice,  Esq., 

Louisville,  Ky. 


Of  Mrs.  Piatt  (Sallie  M.  Bryan)  Mr.  Prentice  always 
spoke  in  terms  of  the  highest  admiration  and  the  purest 
affection.  He  said,  “ Her  ‘ Legend  of  the  Mammoth  Cave  ’ 
is  one  of  the  finest  poems  in  the  language.  It  has  a charm 
about  it  peculiarly  its  own.  Her  poem  entitled  ‘A  Year’ 
is  a masterpiece  of  genius/ ’ 

Mrs.  Piatt  contributed  exclusively  to  the  New-  York 
Ledger  for  several  years,  and  Mr.  Prentice  always  copied 
her  poems  in  the  Journal.  The  most  appreciative  criticisms 
upon  this  singularly  gifted  woman  are  from  his  pen. 

He  was  also  an  admirer  of  the  poetry  of  Rosa  Vertner 
Jeffrey.  In  1856,  in  an  article  in  Graham' s Magazine , he 
said : 

“During  all  the  years  of  her  life,  Rosa  has  been  a favored 
child  of  fortune,  living  in  wealth  and  luxury,  and  the  cen- 
tre of  a very  large  circle  of  devoted  friends  and  admirers. 
Probably  few  ladies  situated  as  she  has  been  would  ever 
have  given  much  thought  to  literature.  But  Heaven  made 
her  a poet,  and  all  the  fascinations  and  allurements  of  fash- 
ionable society  have  not  been  able  to  mar  Heaven’s  handi- 
work. The  daughter  of  a poet  and  a man  of  genius,  she 
has  written  poetry  almost  from  her  childhood.  She  writes 
it  because  she  must.  It  will  not  be  shut  up  in  her  heart. 
The  spirit  of  poetry  is  strong  within  her,  and  if  she  were 
not  to  utter  it,  she  would,  like  a mute  song-bird,  die  of  im- 
prisoned melody.” 


52 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


He  used  to  say  that  John  H.  Harney,  editor  of  the  Louis- 
ville Democrat , was  one  of  the  ablest  political  opponents 
he  ever  had,  and  on  the  occasion  of  his  death  he  wrote: 

“We  are  constrained  by  our  feelings  to  render  a tribute 
of  respect  and  regard  to  Mr.  Harney’s  memory.  No  death 
has  touched  us  more  deeply  than  his  since  a beloved  son 
perished  from  the  circle  of  our  household.  We  knew  him 
well,  and  esteemed  him  highly,  and  were  his  personal  friend 
long  before  he  became  our  rival  editor;  and,  during  all  his 
editorship  of  nearly  a quarter  of  a century,  though  he  was 
always,  until  within  a short  time  past,  our  political  oppo- 
nent, and  though  we  had  many  controversies  with  him,  some 
of  them  violent,  and  even  bitter,  the  kind  personal  relations 
between  him  and  us  were  never,  except  for  one  brief  period, 
interrupted.  Without  being  in  all  respects  so  great  a polit- 
ical leader  as  the  greatest  of  his  Democratic  predecessors, 
Shadrach  Penn,  he  far  transcended  that  eminent  editor  in 
some  of  the  best  qualities  and  powers  of  editorship.  He 
was  a brighter,  a higher,  a more  star-like  spirit  than  Penn. 
His  intellect  was  of  a very  noble  order,  clear,  quick,  rapid, 
and  penetrating.  He  saw  with  a keen  glance,  and  grasped 
with  a strong  hand,  the  heart  of  his  subject.  His  fertility 
of  resource  was  exhaustless.  He  could  treat  the  most  diffi- 
cult topics  playfully,  and  yet  with  the  profoundest  ability. 
His  controversial  talent  was  a formidable  weapon,  but  he 
adorned  it  with  wit  and  grace,  as  soldiers  on  holidays  place 
roses  in  the  muzzles  of  their  muskets.  His  denunciation, 
when  he  was  roused  to  anger,  was  as  caustic  as  frozen  mer- 
cury. In  terseness  and  incisiveness  and  vigor  of  style, 
epigrammatic  point,  and  keen  antithesis,  we  do  not  know 
his  superior,  hardly  his  equal,  in  all  the  American  press. 
He  was  a brilliant  ornament  of  the  editorial  profession. 

“As  a man,  Mr.  Harney  was  kind  and  just  and  true  in 
all  the  relations  of  life.  He  was  of  a most  genial  disposi- 
tion. Though  sometimes  gently  sarcastic  in  his  remarks, 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


53 


his  heart  was  set  to  the  music  of  friendship.  We  do  not 
know  that  he  ever  had  a personal  enemy,  and  we  do  not 
believe  that  he  ever  wished  ill  to  any  human  being.  He 
desired  the  good  of  all.  He  had  his  resentments,  but  they 
could  not  long  live  in  his  nature.  There  was  no  bitterness 
in  his  soul.  Ah,  many  an  ink-drop  did  we  shed  against 
him  in  his  life,  but  only  tears  are  shed  for  him  now.  We 
offer  our  heart’s  most  earnest  sympathy  to  the  bereaved  ones 
of  his  estimable  and  highly  talented  family,  whose  love  was 
a halo  around  his  death-bed,  and  will  be  a halo  around  his 
grave.  ’ ’ 

Mr.  Prentice  often  met  Colonel  C.  S.  Todd,  ex-Minister  to 
Russia,  at  my  house,  and  was  always  delighted  to  see  him. 
He  talked  to  him  for  hours  at  a time  about  General  Harri- 
son, with  whom  Colonel  Todd  served  as  chief  of  staff  in  the 
war  of  1812.  “I  know,”  he  said,  “of  my  own  personal 
knowledge,  that  General  Harrison  esteemed  Colonel  Todd 
more  highly  than  he  did  any  other  officer  in  his  army.  I 
shall  always  love  Colonel  T.  for  the  part  he  enacted  during 
the  memorable  canvass  for  the  Presidency,  when  every 
effort  was  made  to  defeat  Harrison.  Colonel  T.  went  to  Cin- 
cinnati, and  took  charge  of  the  columns  of  the  Republican , 
one  of  the  most  influential  Whig  papers  in  the  Union,  and, 
besides  attending  to  his  arduous  editorial  duties,  he  ad- 
dressed the  people  in  almost  every  town  and  county  in  the 
State.  I do  not  wonder  that  Harrison  said,  on  his  death- 
bed, that  he  should  not  be  satisfied  with  the  appointments 
of  the  Administration  unless  a first-class  position  was  given 
Colonel  Todd.” 

Mr.  Prentice  was  very  much  attached  to  the  poet  Cas- 
siday  and  his  gifted  wife,  and  sought  their  society  a great 
deal,  especially  in  the  latter  years  of  his  life.  He  was  also 
very  much  devoted  to  Governor  Bramlette,  of  Kentucky. 
He  regarded  the  Governor  as  one  of  his  most  valued  and 
5 * 


54  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

trusted  friends,  and  consulted  him  often  upon  civil  and 
constitutional  law,  and,  in  many  instances,  when  in  doubt, 
allowed  the  Governor’s  opinions  to  direct  the  political  tone 
of  the  Journal . When  Judge  Bramlette  was  nominated  for 
Governor,  Mr.  Prentice  said : 

“ Judge  Bramlette  is  a patriot  of  the  purest  stamp,  and  a 
statesman  of  the  first  order.  He  is  a thorough-going  Con- 
stitutional Union  man.  The  principles  enunciated  in  the 
Union  platform  are  his  principles,  and  nobly  will  he  vin- 
dicate them  in  their  full  integrity.  Able,  sound,  judicious, 
fearless,  and  as  high  above  reproach  as  above  fear,  he  is  a 
standard-bearer  of  whom  the  Union  men  of  the  State  may 
well  be  proud.  Judge  Bramlette  is,  in  all  respects,  among 
the  very  foremost  men  of  Kentucky.  ’ ’ 

In  referring  to  Judge  B.’s  gifts  as  an  orator,  during  the 
election  of  1863,  Mr.  Prentice  said: 

“Wherever  Judge  Bramlette  speaks,  the  people  not  only 
come  out  to  hear  him,  but  remain  to  praise  him,  and  go  home 
to  work  for  him  and  for  the  glorious  cause  he  upholds.  His 
devotion  as  a patriot,  his  wisdom  as  a statesman,  and  his 
power  as  an  orator,  form,  indeed,  a triple  charm,  which  the 
popular  heart  is  not  wont  to  resist.” 

Mr.  Prentice  said  of  Judge  B.’s  farewell  address: 
“The  address  of  Governor  Bramlette  is  one  of  the  noblest 
of  his  state  papers,  and  no  Governor  of  the  commonwealth 
has  produced  nobler  ones.  The  address  is  correct  in  doc- 
trine, lofty  and  catholic  in  tone,  and  strong  in  exposition. 
It  abounds  in  just  thoughts,  expressed  with  a kind  of  He- 
braic grandeur  and  vividness.  Its  call  upon  the  people, 
irrespective  of  party,  to  rally  around  the  new  Administra- 
tion, is  especially  impressive,  as  well  as  especially  manly 
and  patriotic.  The  whole  address  is  worthy  of  the  occasion 
and  of  the  man.  It  is  a fitting  valediction  to  his  great 
office,  and  to  the  great  people  who  placed  it  in  his  charge.” 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


55 


Of  Mrs.  Catherine  Warfield,  Mr.  Prentice  said:  “She 
is,  indeed,  a noble-hearted  woman.  Her  ‘ Beausincourt  ’ 
displays  creative  talent  of  no  common  order.” 

Of  Ole  Bull  he  said:  “I  am  glad  that  the  great  violinist 
called  to  see  you  and  your  wife,  during  his  last  visit  to 
Louisville.  His  acquaintance  is  worth  cultivating.  His 
moral  character  is  above  reproach.  His  love  of  truth  is 
an  intuition.  I have  known  him  long  and  well,  and  the 
oftener  I see  him  the  better  I like  him.  He  is  not  only  a 
great  musician,  but  a very  fine  poet.  I have  a great  mind 
to  study  the  Norse  language,  for  the  purpose  of  reading  his 
poetry.” 

On  the  subject  of  education,  Mr.  Prentice  said:  “A 
teacher,  to  be  successful,  should  be  a good  man,  as  well  as-a 
wise  one.  He  should  be  able  to  possess  in  a very  high  de- 
gree the  confidence  of  his  pupils.  The  Rev.  B.  H.  McCown, 
of  Forrest  Academy,  is  a teacher  of  this  kind,  and  I desire  to 
thank  you  for  suggesting  to  me  to  send  my  little  grandson, 
Georgie,  to  him.  I have  visited  Forrest  Academy  very 
often,  and  I take  pleasure  in  saying  that  I never  saw  a 
better  ordered  institution  in  my  life.”  In  the  Journal  of 
1869,  Mr.  Prentice  said  : 

“Mr.  McCown  is  well  and  most. favorably  known  as  a 
teacher  and  a clergyman  to  tens  of  thousands  of  his  fellow- 
citizens.  He  looks  like  an  apostle,  and,  in  every  apparent 
trait  of  character,  he  is  like  one.  Serenity,  benevolence,  and 
Christian  love  are  visible  in  every  feature  of  his  countenance. 
He  is  kind,  charitable,  and  generous  to  all.  His  learning  is 
exact,  varied,  and  substantial.  He  is  a highly  accomplished 
classical  scholar.  His  experience  as  a teacher  has  extended 
through  many  years,  and  been  uniformly  successful  in  a very 
high  degree,  for  he  understands  the  art  of  teaching,  and  is 
universally  zealous  and  indefatigable  in  the  practice  of  it. 
It  is  to  him  a labor  of  love.  His  pupils  are  devoted  to  him, 
for  he  is  to  them  not  only  teacher,  but  friend  and  father, 


56 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


while  at  the  same  time  he  maintains,  by  mingled  firmness 
and  kindness,  the  best  discipline  among  them.” 

Mr.  McCown,  in  speaking  of  Mr.  Prentice,  said:  “I 
have  never  witnessed  in  all  my  life  an  instance  of  more  de- 
voted and  ardent  love  between  a grandfather  and  grandson, 
than  between  Georgie  and  Mr.  Prentice.  Mr.  Prentice 
often  came  to  see  Georgie  when  suffering  from  the  most 
serious  infirmities  of  health,  and  on  one  occasion  apologized 
to  me  for  walking  a mile  from  the  depot  in  bad  weather, 
by  saying  that  he  was  ‘ impelled  by  an  irresistible  desire  to 
see  his  dear  little  boy.’  ” 

In  a conversation  with  Mr.  Prentice  on  the  subject  of 
memory,  I expressed  my  disbelief  in  the  stories  that  The- 
mistocles  could  call  the  name  of  every  citizen  in  Athens, 
and  that  Racine  could  recite,  word  for  word,  the  tragedies 
of  Euripides;  and  he  replied,  “You  are  very  much  mis- 
taken. The  art  of  memorizing  such  things  is  not  so  diffi- 
cult as  you  imagine.  When  a boy,  I knew  by  heart  the  first 
six  books  of  Virgil,  and  could  recite  verbatim  the  whole  of 
Kame’s  ‘Elements  of  Criticism,’  Blair’s  ‘Rhetoric,’  and 
Dugald  Stewart’s  ‘Mental  Philosophy.’  Charley  Thomason, 
of  Louisville,  knew  ‘ Blackstone’s  Commentaries  ’ by  heart; 
and  Cook,  the  tragedian,  memorized  on  one  occasion  the 
entire  contents  of  a daily  newspaper.  Dr.  Bell  does  not 
seem  to  forget  anything  whatever.  Shelley,  you  know, 
claims  that  the  human  mind  is  capable  of  comprehending 
all  that  ever  was  or  ever  will  be.” 

Mr.  Prentice  expressed  the  utmost  contempt  for  authors 
who  pretend  that  it  is  little  or  no  trouble  to  write.  He 
said,  “ It  is  a paltry  and  transparent  affectation  for  a man 
who  has  done  something  of  real  merit  to  pretend  that  it 
cost  him  nothing.  And  yet  it  is  the  most  common  and 
weakest  kind  of  vanity.  We  meet  people  almost  every  day 
who  seem  to  think,  because  Byron  woke  one  morning 
and  found  himself  famous,  that  he  had  been  asleep  since 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


57 


the  day  before  yesterday.  It  is  a very  grave  mistake,  and 
has  helped  to  make  a great  many  fools.”  He  used  to  say, 
“The  light  of  the  world  comes  principally  from  two 
sources,  the  sun  and  the  student’s  lamp.” 

I remember  talking  to  him  about  the  poetry  of  Virginia 
Smith,  and  of  expressing  astonishment  at  her  strong  common 
sense.  Poets,  I said,  do  not  often  possess  this  quality.  He 
replied,  “Your  judgment  is  certainly  at  fault.  Poets  have 
as  much  common  sense  as  other  persons.  There  is  nothing 
inconsistent  between  poetry  and  common  sense.  The  union 
of  these  two  qualities  is  inseparable.” 

He  talked  much  of  the  many  noble  qualities  of  mind  and 
heart  of  the  great  surgeon,  Dr.  Samuel  D.  Gross,  of  Phila- 
delphia, and  in  a letter  to  me  spoke  of  him  as  “ one  of  the 
glories  of  the  nation.” 

I once  told  him  that  Mr.  was  desirous  of  writing 

his  life.  “Heaven  forbid,”  said  he;  “ the  very  thought  of 
such  a thing  is  enough  to  add  a new  terror  to  death.” 

On  one  occasion,  a fellow  by  the  name  of  Lake  wrote 
him  an  insulting  note  from  the  University  of  Virginia,  in 
which  he  said,  “Stop  my  paper.  It  is  a filthy  abbolition 
sheet."  Mr.  Prentice  sent  him  the  following  reply  : “I 
think  it  a great  pity  that  a young  man  should  go  to  a univer- 
sity to  graduate  a traitor  and  a blackguard,  and  so  ignorant 
as  to  spell  abolition  with  two  b’s.” 

Mr.  Prentice  was  one  of  the  best  judges  of  character  I 
ever  knew.  It  was  almost  impossible  to  hide  truth  from 
him.  He  could  see  at  a glance  through  the  most  guarded 
meanness  and  hypocrisy.  He  never  doubted  the  constancy 
of  a friend.  Whenever  he  formed  an  attachment,  it  was 
almost  sure  to  last  through  life.  There  was  not  a particle 
of  selfishness  in  his  nature.  He  scorned  to  make  virtue  a 
cloak  for  vice.  He  was  kind  and  gentle  and  charitable  to 
a fault,  and  felt  no  enmity  toward  his  rivals.  He  never 
allowed  his  political  feelings  to  alter  his  personal  relations. 


58 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


I have  often  heard  him  speak  in  the  kindest  ana  most  affec- 
tionate terms  of  Mr.  Greeley.  These  two  great  journalists 
were  for  many  years  the  most  bitter  political  opponents,  and, 
although  engaged  in  a countless  number  of  polemic  duels, . 
neither  of  them  at  any  time  entertained  the  slightest  doubt 
of  the  honesty  and  sincerity  of  the  other’s  convictions. 
When  Mr.  Greeley  came  to  Louisville  for  the  purpose  of 
delivering  one  of  his  famous  lectures,  Mr.  Prentice  urged 
me  to  go  to  hear  him,  saying,  “ I regard  him  as  the  ablest 
as  well  as  the  most  conscientious  journalist  in  the  North ; 
he  has  outlived  the  ordinary  period  of  life,  but  his  mind  is 
in  the  fulness  of  its  power.  It  is  something  for  the  people 
of  the  rising  generation  to  look  upon  the  form  and  features 
of  such  a brave  and  daring  chieftain.  When  he  shall  depart 
from  among  us,  he  will  probably  not  leave  a single  peer  be- 
hind.” 

On  the  evening  of  Mr.  Greeley’s  lecture,  Mr.  Prentice 
introduced  him  to  the  audience,  occupied  a chair  near  the 
speaker’s  stand,  and  listened  attentively  to  every  word  that 
fell  from  his  lips.  A few  weeks  after  the  lecture,  Mr.  Pren- 
tice wrote  the  following  beautiful  poem  to  him,  entitled  — 

TO  A POLITICAL  OPPONENT. 

I send  thee,  Greeley,  words  of  cheer, 

Thou  bravest,  truest,  best  of  men  ; 

For  I have  marked  thy  strong  career, 

As  traced  by  thy  own  sturdy  pen. 

I ’ve  seen  thy  struggles  with  the  foes 
That  dared  thee  to  the  desperate  fight, 

And  loved  to  watch  thy  goodly  blows, 

Dealt  for  the  cause  thou  deem’st  the  right. 

Thou  ’st  dared  to  stand  against  the  wrong, 

When  many  faltered  by  thy  side ; 

In  thy  own  strength  hast  dared  be  strong, 

Nor  on  another’s  arm  relied. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


59 


Thy  own  bold  thoughts  thou  ’st  dared  to  think, 

Thy  own  great  purposes  avowed ; 

And  none  have  ever  seen  thee  shrink 
From  the  fierce  surges  of*the  crowd. 

Thou,  all  unaided  and  alone, 

Didst  take  thy  way  in  life’s  young  years, 

With  no  kind  hand  clasped  in  thine  own, 

No  gentle  voice  to  soothe  thy  tears. 

But  thy  high  heart  no  power  could  tame, 

And  thou  hast  never  ceased  to  feel 

Within  thy  veins  a sacred  flame 

That  turned  thy  iron  nerves  to  steel. 

I know  that  thou  art  not  exempt 
From  all  the  weaknesses  of  earth ; 

For  passion  comes  to  rouse  and  tempt 
The  truest  souls  of  mortal  birth. 

But  thou  hast  well  fulfilled  thy  trust, 

In  spite  of  love  and  hope  and  fear; 

And  e’en  the  tempest’s  thunder-gust 
But  clears  thy  spirit’s  atmosphere. 

Thou  still  art  in  thy  manhood’s  prime, 

Still  foremost  ’mid  thy  fellow -men, 

Though  in  each  year  of  all  thy  time 

Though  hast  compressed  threescore  and  ten. 

Oh,  may  each  blessed  sympathy, 

Breathed  on  thee  with  a tear  and  sigh, 

A sweet  flower  in  thy  pathway  be, 

A bright  star  in  thy  clear  blue  sky. 

It  has  been  said  that  “Mr.  Prentice  wrote  verses  simply 
as  a recreation,”  and  that  “he  estimated  lightly  his  poetic 
gift.”  There  is  no  truth  whatever  in  such  a conclusion.  A 
more  silly  thought  never  took  possession  of  a critic's  brain. 

Mr.  Prentice  wrote  poetry  because  he  loved  it,  because 
he  could  not  help  it,  and  because  it  was  one  of  the  elements 
in  which  he  lived,  and  moved,  and  breathed,  and  had  his 
being.  It  was  so  deeply  interwoven  in  his  nature  that  it 


Co 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


became  an  integral  part  of  it,  and  ever  clung  around  and 
about  him  as  the  tendrils  of  the  ivy  to  the  oak.  It  was  to 
his  existence  what  the  de\v  and  sunshine  are  to  the  flowers. 

In  the  stillness  of  night,  when  alone  in  his  room,  “a 
time  for  memory  and  tears,”  his  great  soul  loved  to  com- 
mune with  itself  and  the  spirit  of  the  universe.  I have 
heard  him  say  that  at  such  moments,  if  it  had  not  been  for 
his  paralyzed  hand,  he  could  have  expressed  thoughts  such 
as  only  the  truly  inspired  feel. 

His  poems  entitled  “ My  Mother’s  Grave,”  “Birthday 
Reflections,”  and  a little  poem  called  “Violets,”  (pub- 
lished in  the  Ledger  a few  weeks  before  his  death,  but 
written  last  summer,)  “The  Closing  Year,”  “The  Stars,” 
“To  a Poetess  on  her  Birthday,”  “The  River  in  the  Mam- 
moth Cave,”  are  among  his  best  pieces. 

The  last  poem  he  ever  wrote  was  inscribed  to  my  wife. 
It  is  so  very  beautiful  that  I hope  I shall  be  pardoned  for 
inserting  it  here. 

TO  MY  POETESS  — A.  M.  G. 

Dear  Alice,  for  two  happy  hours 
I ’ve  sat  within  this  little  nook, 

To  muse  upon  the  sweet  soul-flowers 
That  blossom  in  thy  gentle  book. 

They  lift  their  white  and  spotless  bells, 

Untouched  by  frost,  unchanged  by  time; 

For  they  are  blessed  immortelles 
Transplanted  from  the  Eden  clime. 

With  pure  and  deep  idolatry 

Upon  each  lovely  page  I ’ve  dwelt, 

Till  to  thy  spirit’s  sorcery 

My  spirit  has  with  reverence  knelt. 

Oh,  every  thought  of  thine  to  me 
Is  like  a fount,  a bird,  a star, 

A tone  of  holy  minstrelsy 

Down  floating  from  the  clouds  afar! 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


61 


The  fairies  have  around  thee  traced 
A circle  bright,  a magic  sphere, 

The  home  of  genius,  beauty,  taste, 

The  joyous  smile,  the  tender  tear. 

Within  that  circle,  calm  and  clear, 

With  Nature’s  softest  dews  impearled, 

I sit  and  list  with  pitying  ear 
The  tumults  of  the  far-off  world. 

Thy  book  is  shut  — its  flowers  remain, 

’Mid  this  mysterious  twilight  gloom, 

Deep-imaged  on  my  heart  and  brain, 

And  shed  their  fragrance  through  my  room. 

Ah,  how  I love  their  holy  bloom, 

As  in  these  moonbeams,  dim  and  wan, 

They  seem  pale  blossoms  o’er  a tomb 
That ’s  closed  upon  the  loved  and  gone  ! 

Young  angel  of  my  waning  years. 

Consoler  of  life’s  stormiest  day, 

Magician  of  my  hopes  and  fears, 

Guide  of  my  dark  and  troubled  way, 

To  thee  this  little  votive  lay 
In  gratitude  I dedicate, 

And  with  an  earnest  spirit  pray 
God’s  blessing  on  thy  mortal  state. 

“ The  Closing  Year”  is  one  of  his  earliest  productions. 
It  is  more  frequently  qnoted  than  any  other  of  his  poems. 
It  is  generally  regarded  as  his  finest  creation.  It  bears 
some  resemblance  to  Bryant’s  “ Thanatopsis, ” to  which  it 
has  often  been  compared,  but  the  imagery  in  the  “ Closing 
Year  ” is  far  bolder  and  more  inspiring,  and  besides,  there 
is  a greater  breadth  of  vision  and  a wider  range  of  imagi- 
nation in  it.  There  is,  however,  in  “ Thanatopsis  ” a soft 
and  mellow  beauty  which  is  hardly  equalled  in  the  other, 
but  there  is  a compactness,  or  rather  completeness  about 
‘ ‘ Thanatopsis,”  that  seems  to  leave  no  room  for  sugges- 
tiveness. 


6 


6 2 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


The  following  extract  from  “ The  Closing  Year  M will  pro- 
bably enable  the  reader  to  see  the  justice  of  this  criticism : 

Remorseless  Time ! 

Fierce  Spirit  of  the  Glass  and  Scythe  — what  power 
Can  stay  him  in  his  silent  course,  or  melt 
His  iron  heart  to  pity  ? On,  still  on, 

He  presses,  and  forever.  The  proud  bird, 

The  Condor  of  the  Andes,  that  can  soar 
Through  heaven’s  unfathomable  depths,  or  brave 
The  fury  of  the  northern  hurricane, 

And  bathe  his  plumage  in  the  thunder’s  home, 

Furls  his  broad  wing  at  nightfall  and  sinks  down 
To  rest  upon  his  mountain  crag  — but  Time 
Knows  not  the  weight  of  sleep  or  weariness, 

And  Night’s  deep  darkness  has  no  chain  to  bind 
His  rushing  pinion.  Revolutions  sweep 
O’er  Earth,  like  troubled  visions  o’er  the  breast 
Of  dreaming  Sorrow  — cities  rise  and  sink 
Like  bubbles  on  the  water  — fiery  isles 
Spring  blazing  from  the  ocean,  and  go  back 
To  their  mysterious  caverns — mountains  rear 
To  heaven  their  bald  and  blackened  cliffs,  and  bow 
Their  tall  heads  to  the  plains  — new  empires  rise, 

Gathering  the  strength  of  hoary  centuries, 

And  rush  down  like  the  Alpine  avalanche, 

Startling  the  nations  — and  the  very  stars, 

Yon  bright  and  burning  blazonry  of  God, 

Glitter  awhile  in  their  eternal  depths, 

And,  like  the  Pleiad,  loveliest  of  their  train, 

Shoot  from  their  glorious  spheres  and  pass  away 
To  darkle  in  the  trackless  void  — but  Time, 

Time,  the  Tomb-builder,  holds  his  fierce  career. 

Dark,  stem,  all-pitiless,  and  pauses  not, 

Amid  the  mighty  wrecks  that  strew  his  path. 

To  sit  and  muse,  like  other  conquerors, 

Upon  the  fearful  ruin  he  has  wrought. 


“ The  Closing  Year,”  however,  is  no  more  beautiful  or 
suggestive  than  some  of  Mr.  Prentice’s  later  productions: 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


63 


for  instance,  “The  Summit  of  the  Sierra  Madre,”  and 
the  “ Thoughts  on  the  Far  Past/’  written  but  a few  months 
before  his  death.  His  genius  tended  more  toward  the  ex- 
pression of  poetic  sentiment  than  toward  anything  else. 
It  was  often  a very  difficult  task  for  him  to  keep  from  ex- 
pressing his  thoughts  in  verse.  His  prose  is  full  of  the 
sublimest  poetry.  Two  of  his  sketches,  “ The  Tempest’ * 
and  “The  Broken-Hearted,”  are,  I think,  among  the 
finest  prose  poems  in  the  language.  It  is  in  the  “ Broken- 
Hearted  ” that  he  says: 

“ It  cannot  be  that  earth  is  man’s  only  abiding  place.  It 
cannot  be  that  our  life  is  a bubble,  cast  up  by  the  ocean 
of  eternity,  to  float  another  moment  upon  its  surface,  and 
then  sink  into  nothingness  and  darkness  forever.  Else, 
why  is  it  that  the  high  and  glorious  aspirations  which  leap 
like  angels  from  the  temple  of  our  hearts,  are  forever 
wandering  abroad  unsatisfied  ? Why  is  it  that  the  rainbow 
and  the  cloud  come  over  us  with  a beauty  that  is  not  of 
earth,  and  then  pass  off  and  leave  us  to  muse  on  their 
faded  loveliness  ? Why  is  it  that  the  stars  which  hold  their 
festival  around  the  midnight  throne  are  set  above  the  grasp 
of  our  limited  faculties,  and  forever  mocking  us  with  their 
unapproachable  glory  ? And  finally,  why  is  it  that  bright 
forms  of  human  beauty  are  presented  to  the  view,  and  then 
taken  from  us,  leaving  the  thousand  streams  of  the  affec- 
tions to  flow  back  in  an  Alpine  torrent  upon  our  hearts  ? 
We  are  born  for  a higher  destiny  than  that  of  earth.  There 
is  a realm  where  the  rainbow  never  fades ; where  the  stars 
will  be  spread  out  before  us  like  the  islands  that  slumber  on 
the  ocean  ; and  where  the  beautiful  beings  that  here  pass 
before  us  like  visions,  will  stay  in  our  presence  forever.” 

In  1857,  Mr.  Prentice  prepared  with  great  care  a lecture 
entitled  “The  Present  Aspect  of  American  Statesman- 
ship,” and  delivered  it  in  various  parts  of  the  country.  It 
attracted  a great  deal  of  attention,  not  only  at  home,  but 


64 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


abroad.  It  was  remarkable  for  the  prophetic  character  of 
its  views.  The  press  everywhere  teemed  with  notices  of 
it ; some  denounced  it,  and  others  condemned  it.  The 
lecturer  was  accused  of  taking  a morbid  and  gloomy  view 
of  the  future;  but  when  a few  years  elapsed,  and  the  war 
between  the  States  was  inaugurated,  every  one  felt  that  the 
lecturer  had  spoken  as  with  the  voice  of  a prophet. 

This  lecture  was  never  published,  and  I am  unable  to  say 
whether  Mr.  Prentice  ever  saved  a MS.  copy  of  it  or  not. 
The  peroration  was  eloquent  beyond  description,  and  the 
remarks  upon  the  death  of  Mr.  Clay  moved  the  audience  to 
tears.  Mr.  Prentice  said,  “ Ulysses  has  gone  upon  his 
wandering,  and  there  are  none  left  in  all  of  Ithaca  to  bend 
his  bow.” 

Several  years  ago,  when  the  Louisville  Journal  was  in  the 
zenith  of  its  popularity,  The  Round  Table , a sensational  paper 
of  New  York,  seeking  a shining  mark,  indulged  in  a wilful 
and  wanton  attack  upon  it.  The  Round  Table  said,  among 
other  things,  “that  good  editing  had  been  denied  Louis- 
ville, that  the  standing  of  her  press  was  very  low,  and  that 
the  Joitrnal  was  full  of  stale  and  dreary  platitudes,  and  point- 
less and  pretentious  paragraphs.”  At  that  time  I was  edit- 
ing the  Louisville  Gazette , and  I felt  constrained  to  reply  to 
the  article  in  the  Round  Table.  I did  so  in  the  best  man- 
ner I could.  I remember  showing  both  articles  to  Mr. 
Prentice,  and  asking  him  what  he  thought  of  them.  He  read 
the  article  in  the  Round  Table  with  a frown,  more  of  con- 
tempt than  indignation,  and  then  took  up  my  reply,  and, 
after  finishing  it,  said,  “Your  reply  does  well  enough,  so  far 
as  it  goes,  but  it  does  not  go  far  enough.  I shall  see  what 
I can  do  to  help  the  matter  in  to-morrow’s  paper.” 

The  next  morning,  the  Journal  appeared  with  the  follow- 
ing scathing  editorial,  which  I give  as  an  illustration  of  Mr. 
Prentice’s  command  over  language,  and  of  the  manner  in 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  ' 65 

which  he  usually  punished  those  who  attacked  him  without 
cause. 

“The  ‘Round  Table. ’ — A weekly  paper  in  New  York 
city  is  called  by  this  name.  For  some  months  it  has  been 
making  desperate  efforts  to  gain  notoriety.  To  accom- 
plish its  purpose,  it  has  resorted  to  all  sorts  of  expedients. 
It  has  undertaken  to  play  the  oracle.  It  has  claimed  to 
speakas  with  the  voice  of  fate.  It  has,  as  if  by  the  authority 
of  high  position,  denounced  and  abused  its  betters.  It  has 
got  itself  prosecuted  for  libels.  It  has,  at  whatever  cost, 
managed  or  tried  to  manage  to  have  itself  talked  about. 
Lately  it  has  put  forth  a series  of  editorial  articles  on  the 
American  newspaper  press.  Some  papers  it  praises,  and 
some  it  condemns.  The  Louisville  papers  fall  under  its  dis- 
pleasure. What  a pity  ! The  Round  Table  needs  a Sir 
Roland  as  one  of  its  knights.  We  will  give  it  one  for  its 
Oliver. 

“The  Table  is  as  paltry  as  it  is  pretentious.  Its  editors  lack 
ability.  They  want  education.  They  are  illiterate.  They  can’t 
write  the  English  language  correctly.  They  sin  grievously 
against  Lindley  Murray,  Horne  Tooke,  Gould  Brown,  and 
Noble  Butler.  Even  the  articles  in  which  they  act  the 
critic  on  the  American  press,  and  in  which,  if  any,  they 
would  of  course  be  especially  careful  not  to  blunder  in  their 
grammar,  they  do  blunder  continually  and  miserably.  For 
instance,  ‘A  satisfactory  estimate  of  the  number  and  con- 
dition of  country  papers  is  difficult  to  form.’  ‘ Form  ’ is  an 
active  verb;  but  what  objective  does  it  govern?  Not  ‘esti- 
mate,’ for  that  is  nominative  to  ‘is.’  Again,  ‘ The  proper 
sphere  of  such  publications  is  not  difficult  to  determine.’ 
There  the  blunder  already  noticed  recurs.  ‘ He  can  fill  it 
with  words  enough  to  complete  its  pages.’  That ’s  tautology . 

‘ Tenets  long  since  exploded,  and  only  lingering  in  the  slug- 
gish recesses  of  the  unenlightened  rustic  mind,’  etc.  The 
word  ‘ only  ’ should  follow  ‘ lingering.’  Standing  where  it 
6* 


66  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

does,  it  fails  to  express  the  writer’s  idea.  ‘ This  desideratum  is 
only  attainable  at  intervals.’  There ’s  the  same  error  again. 

‘ Only  ’ should  be  after,  not  before,  ‘ attainable.’  The  idea 
isn’t  that  the  desideratum  is  6 only  attainable ,’  but  that  it  is 
attainable  only  at  intervals . ‘ The  Philadelphia  Press , which 
is  only  prevented  from  being  a model  paper  by,’  etc.  There 
it  comes  for  the  third  time.  ‘ Only  ’ should  follow  ‘ paper.’ 

‘ They  must  not  only  have  a position  of  respectability,  but 
one  in  which,’  etc.  There ’s  the  thing’s  fourth  appearance. 
‘Not  only’  should  follow  ‘have.’  ‘Only’  is  a word  that 
the  Round  Table  doesn’t  know  how  to  use,  and  it  isn’t  the 
only  one.  The  editor,  speaking  of  the  contents  of  a country 
paper,  says,  ‘ the  remainder  of  the  sheet  will  be  filled  with 
stray  paragraphs,’  etc.  Why  does  he  say  will  be  filled  ? He 
may  see  how  a sheet  is  filled,  but  what  means  has  he  of 
knowing  how  any  sheet  will  be  ? ‘ Their  chief  characteristic 
is  colorless  vacuity.’  This  implies  that  some  vacuities, 
spaces  in  which  there  is  no  substance,  are  colored.  Of  what 
color  are  they  ? ‘ Such  a case  is  very  far  from  being  single,’ 
etc.  If  the  case  isn’t  ‘single,’  what  is  it?  Double  or 
treble  or  quadruple  ? Is  n’t  every  individual  case  ‘single?  ’ 
‘ His  popularity  and  that  of  his  Journal  is  destroyed.’  They 
is — is  they?  ‘ It  follows  as  a sequence,’  etc.  ‘ Sequence  ’ 
is  something  that  follows.  So  the  writer’s  idea  is  that  it 
follows  as  something  that  follows.  ‘ The  managing  editor 
is  compelled  to  achieve  the  impossible.  Of  course  the  im- 
possible is  never  achieved.’  As  the  impossible  is  never 
achieved,  and  can’t  be,  how  is  an  editor  compelled  to  achieve 
it  ? ‘ This  restriction  is  itself  a power  ; it  permits  of  ready 

classifications  of  great  variety,’  etc.  Permits  of!  The  man 
probaby  means  admits.  ‘ According  to  the  respective  im- 
portance of  the  subject,’  etc.  What  a use  of  the  word  ‘ re- 
spective ! ’ ‘ That  place  of  excellence  toward  which  the 

metropolitan  editor  is  always  approaching,  but  never  quite 
attains,’  etc.  Leave  out  ‘toward,’  and  the  phrase  is  well 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


6 7 


enough.  As  it  stands,  it  is  execrable.  ‘ These  expectations 
will  be  found  attended  by  important  conclusions.  ’ But  the 
conclusions  don’t  attend  the  expectations.  When  the  con- 
clusions come,  the  expectations  are  at  an  end.  ‘ The  South 
is  in  so  yeasty  a condition,’  etc.  He  thinks  the  prosperous 
South  is  rising  like  a loaf  of  light  bread.  We  wish  she  were. 
‘The  Transcript , in  some  respects,  is  superior  to  its  rivals, 
but  its  circle  of  readers  is  relatively  less.’  If  its  circle  of 
readers  is  ‘ less  ’ than  that  of  its  rivals,  why  not  be  satisfied 
to  say  so?  What  is  meant  by  ‘ relatively  less ?'  ‘ Maine 

has  but  two  newspapers  of  any  critical  worth.’  What  par- 
ticular kind  of  worth  is  ‘ critical  worth.’  ‘The  reader  is 
conscious  of  a choppy,  jagging,  short-breathed  movement,’ 
etc.  In  the  name  of  the  seven  wonders  of  the  world,  what 
sort  of  movement  can  that  be?  ‘Each  of  these  journals  are 
in  one  particular  in  advance,’  etc.  Each  of  them  are  ! 
that  will  do.  ‘ The  Richmond  papers  were  remarkable  for 
the  lilt  and  pungency  of  their  editorials.’  There ’s  no  such 
word  as  ‘ lilt.’  As  used  by  the  writer,  it  is  a bogus  word, 
bearing  his  own  image  and  superscription.  ‘ The  Baltimore 
papers  are  noted  for  nothing,  unless  it  be  for  a certain  ab- 
stentation  from  sensations.’  Unless  it  is,  the  writer  should 
have  said.  And  there ’s  no  such  word  as  ‘abstentation.’ 
’Tis  the  writer’s  own  beggarly  coinage.  Abstention  is  the 
word  the  booby  was  after.  ‘ Neither  the  Picayune  nor  the 
Times  can  be  quoted  as  examples.  ’ Of  course,  neither  of  the 
two  can  be  quoted  as  examples,  though  either  of  them 
might  be  quoted  as  an  example.  ‘ Boston  Transcripts  are 
not  in  the  habit  of  multiplying  themselves,  and  their  absence 
is  a moral  loss.’  But  if  we  have  not  had  them,  how  can 
their  absence  be  a loss  ? Can  we  lose  what  we  have  not, 
and  never  had  ? ‘ The  provincial  press  is  not  single  in  this 

lucrative  sin,’  etc.  ’T  is  n’t  single  in  it ! What  then,  double 
or  compound  ? The  writer  wanted  to  say  alone.  Twice  he 
uses  the  word  publicist  as  synonymous  with  publisher,  the 


68 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


thrice-sodden  ass  ! A publicist  is  a writer  on  the  laws  of 
nature  and  nations. 

uWe  could  cite  from  the  Round  Table' s single  article  on 
the  press  three  times  as  many  blunders  as  we  have  cited 
blunders  in  grammar,  blunders  in  thought,  blunders  in 
everything.  The  editors,  who  set  themselves  up  as  ora- 
cles of  literature  and  arbiters  of  the  American  press,  are 
miserably  deficient  in  their  own  trade,  that  of  writing. 
Their  pretensions  are  the  roaring  of  a mountain  ; their 
performance  the  birth  of  a deformed  mouse.  Their  peri- 
odical is  unfit,  on  account  of  its  gross  illiterateness,  to 
circulate  in  any  community.’’ 

Mr.  Prentice  was  very  warmly  attached  to  Mr.  Paul  R. 
Shipman,  who  for  a long  time  was  associated  with  him  in 
the  editorial  management  of  the  Louisville  Journal . Mr. 
Shipman  was  very  intimate  with  him,  and  resided  with  Mr. 
Prentice’s  family  at  their  beautiful  residence  on  Walnut 
Street,  in  Louisville.  Mr.  Shipman  became  connected 
with  the  Journal  when  quite  young.  He  was  a fine  class- 
ical scholar,  and  an  able  and  vigorous  writer. 

I cannot  recall  anything  more  beautiful  than  the  pure 
and  disinterested  friendship  that  so  long  existed  between 
these  two  gifted  and  accomplished  gentlemen.  Mr.  Pren- 
tice had  so  much  confidence  in  the  judgment  of  Mr.  Ship- 
man,  that  if  ever  he  had  any  doubt  as  to  the  fitness  or  good 
taste  of  one  of  his  own  articles  or  paragraphs,  he  always 
ended  his  uncertainty  by  submitting  the  matter  to  his 
younger  colleague.  The  cordial  and  intimate  relations 
between  them  existed  as  long  as  Mr.  Shipman  remained 
connected  with  the  Journal , and  even  afterward,  until  Mr. 
Shipman’s  marriage  and  his  final  departure  from  Louisville, 
in  1869. 

This  extract  from  a letter  from  Mr.  J.  W.  Forney,  of 
the  Philadelphia  Press  and  Washington  Ch?'onicle , may 
not  be  inappropriately  given  here : 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


69 


“ We  had  been  violent  political  enemies,  and  Prentice 
had  said  many  bitter  things  of  me  ; but  perhaps  our  com- 
mon friends  made  both  of  us  forget  and  forgive.  He  came 
to  Washington  during  the  war,  and  we  met  then  for  the  first 
time,  and  became  friends  at  once.  There  was  this  tie 
between  us  : we  liked  many  of  the  Union  leaders  of  Ken- 
tucky, particularly  John  J.  Crittenden  and  his  son  Colonel 
Thomas  L.  Crittenden,  James  Jackson,  and  men  of  that 
stamp.  I could  sympathize  with  the  difficulties  that  sur- 
rounded Prentice  in  Kentucky.  It  was  so  much  more  dif- 
ficult to  be  a Union  man  in  the  South  than  in  the  North. 
Had  Prentice  lived  North,  he  would  have  been  as  radical 
as  myself ; and  no  doubt,  had  I lived  South,  I would  have 
been  like  him  a conservative.  We  had  many  earnest  con- 
versations together,  and  in  all  I never  found  him  otherwise 
than  friendly,  tolerant,  and  generous.  I shall  never  forget 
his  enthusiasm  at  one  of  my  receptions  during  the  war,  when 
he  was  one  of  my  guests.  He  was  as  full  of  patriotism  as 
any  man  in  the  house,  and  deeply  regretted  the  necessity 
that  compelled  him  to  take  issue  with  many  of  the  radical 
measures  of  Congress.  He  wrote  me  frequently  ; but,  as  I 
never  keep  private  letters,  what  he  said  is  lost  in  oblivion.’ 1 
Mr.  Prentice’s  genius  shone  out  with  increasing  splen- 
dor toward  the  close  of  his  life.  In  the  spring  of  1868, 
he  said  to  me,  “ I have  promised  Mr.  Bonner  to  write  ten 
pieces  of  poetry  for  the  Ledger.  I am  glad  of  it.  I am  grow- 
ing old  ; pain  and  sickness  and  trouble  and  sorrow  have  laid 
their  corroding  fingers  upon  my  brow,  and  many  think 
that  I cannot  write  as  well  as  I did  in  my  younger  years. 
I am  determined  to  prove  to  the  contrary,  for  the  rose  of 
my  spirit  is  as  bright  and  fresh  as  in  the  days  of  my  boy- 
hood.” On  the  first  day  of  1869,  he  said,  “ The  past 
year  was  a bad  old  year  : I am  glad  that  it  is  gone,  and 
that  a new  one  has  come  with  its  buds  of  hope  and  prom- 
ise. I am  determined  to  make  this  year  the  best  year  of 
my  life.” 


70 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


How  well  he  fulfilled  his  resolution  is  known  to 
the  world.  There  is  not  a line  that  fell  from  his  pen 
that  does  not  bear  upon  it  the  ineffaceable  stamp  of  his 
genius. 

I have  already  referred  to  the  affection  in  the  hands  of 
Mr.  Prentice.  It  is  called  chorea  scriptorum , or  scriveners ’ 
cramp.  As  everything  about  Mr.  Prentice  is  interesting, 
and  in  relation  to  this  malady  may  be  instructive,  I pur- 
pose to  give  some  details  additional  to  those  I have  men- 
tioned. The  chorea  scriptorum  was  the  torture  of  Mr. 
Prentice’s  life  for  over  thirty  years.  It  showed  itself 
soon  after  an  exciting  canvass  for  the  Presidency,  during 
which  he  wrote  excessively.  After  trying  a multitude  of 
remedies,  including  galvanism  and  electricity,  without  get- 
ting relief,  he  managed  to  write  by  using  a pen  the  handle 
of  which  was  made  very  large  by  wrapping  silk  around  it. 
The  pen  was  grasped  by  all  the  fingers,  and  the  thumb 
kept  in  a state  of  extension.  This  plan  soon  began  to  fail ; 
and  in  view  of  this  possibility,  Mr.  Prentice  learned  to 
write  with  his  left  hand.  The  left  hand  soon  fell  into  the 
condition  of  the  right  one.  Amanuenses  were  then  em- 
ployed, and  upon  these  he  was  mainly  dependent  the  rest 
of  his  life.  The  inventive  genius  of  the  country  was  taxed 
for  the  invention  of  a suitable  writing-machine  for  him, 
but  all  machines  failed,  and  were  of  course  abandoned. 
One  season  he  went  to  New  Orleans  and  placed  himself 
under  hydropathic  treatment,  with  a hope  of  cure.  He 
pursued  this  until  his  constitution  was  severely  ravaged. 
The  entire  skin  was  in  a state  of  serious  paralysis.  This 
induced  him  to  moderate  his  use  of  hydropathy,  but  he 
never  gave  it  up  until  a foreigner  whom  he  had  brought 
with  him  from  New  Orleans,  and  who  resided  with  him 
because  of  his  great  pretensions  as  a hydropathist,  under- 
took one  night  to  reduce  a dislocation  of  the  right  shoulder 
by  pouring  pitchers  of  cold  water  over  the  shoulder.  This 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE.  71 

filled  the  cup  of  Mr.  Prentice’s  suspicions  of  the  igno- 
rance of  his  hydropathic  attendant.  The  family  physician 
was  sent  for,  and  he  immediately  reduced  the  dislocation. 
From  this  time  Mr.  Prentice  gave  up  hydropathy. 

Chorea  scriptorum  is  incurable,  as  a general  rule. 
Niemeyer  quotes  Fritz  for  the  most  sensible  view  of  this 
malady  that  has  been  given.  Brown-Sequard  and  Claude 
Bernard  have  explained  the  phenomena  of  reflex  actions 
of  the  nervous  system,  and  have  shown  that  they  have 
their  origin  mainly  in  the  skin.  Fritz  says  that  this  affec- 
tion is  a reflex  neurosis,  in  which,  however,  excitement  of 
the  motor  nerves  is  not  derived  from  the  cutaneous  nerves, 
as  in  most  reflex  neuroses,  but  proceeds  from  the  muscular 
nerves.  The  evil,  no  matter  how  long  it  may  be  quiescent 
by  abstinence  from  the  use  of  the  muscles  that  produced 
the  disorder,  will  invariably  show  itself,  even  if  the  hand 
merely  is  held  in  the  position  for  writing.  As  soon  as 
this  special  use  is  suspended,  the  malady  ceases  during 
abstinence  from  this  use.  Mr.  Prentice,  notwithstanding 
his  affliction,  occasionally  wrote  poems  and  letters  in  his 
own  hand  to  his  particular  friends. 

Mr.  Prentice  never  wearied  talking  of  the  beauties 
and  mysteries  of  nature ; and  I have  often  listened  spell- 
bound, as  it  were,  to  his  description  of  the  Mammoth 
Cave,  with  its  deep  chasms,  Stygian  pools,  awful  isles,  fath- 
omless gulfs,  crystal  fountains,  and  high  - pillared  domes 
fretted  with  the  semblance  of  stars  and  flowers.  He  had 
arranged  with  my  family  to  visit  the  Cave  during  tha  com- 
ing spring.  He  said,  “I  want  to  stand  once  more  upon  the 
banks  of  Echo  River,  that  wild  and  wizard  stream,  in 
which  no  star  or  rainbow  ever  glassed  its  image  of  love 
and  beauty,  and  extinguish  my  lamp  and  see  what  dark- 
ness is.” 

In  1868,  Mr.  Prentice  sold  out  his  interest  in  the  Jour- 
nal, but  retained  a position  on  its  staff.  The  paper  was 


72 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


soon  afterward  consolidated  with  the  Louisville  Courier,  and 
published  under  the  title  of  The  Courier-Journal. 

After  the  death  of  Mrs.  Prentice,  in  April,  1868,  Mr. 
Prentice  removed  from  his  residence,  on  Walnut  Street,  to 
his  office,  in  the  Courier- Journal  building,  where  he  slept, 
and  had  his  meals  brought  to  him  from  the  neighboringhotels 
and  restaurants.  He  was  at  this  time  in  feeble  health,  and 
his  office  being  in  the  third  story,  he  seldom  left  it,  on 
account  of  the  fatigue  it  gave  him  to  walk  up  and  down  the 
stairs. 

At  one  time,  he  thought  of  retiring  from  the  press,  for  the 
purpose  of  devoting  himself  wholly  to  literature.  His  son, 
Colonel  Clarence  J.  Prentice,  had  purchased  a beautiful  farm 
nine  miles  below  Louisville,  on  the  Ohio  River,  and  it  was 
his  wish  that  his  father  should  pass  the  remainder  of  his  life 
away  from  the  noise  and  bustle  of  the  city ; but  a fondness 
for  newspapers  prevented  Mr.  Prentice  from  acceding  to 
the  wishes  of  his  son,  and  it  may  be  said  that  he  died  lit- 
erally in  harness,  with  accumulated  and  accumulating  duties 
around  him. 

The  last  time  I saw  Mr.  Prentice  in  Louisville,  was  the 
day  before  he  started  to  his  son’s.  He  came  to  spend  the 
evening  with  us,  and,  as  he  sat  in  his  chair  in  the  library, 
I thought  that  I had  never  seen  him  look  so  well  before. 
He  was  unusually  cheerful,  and  talked  with  much  pleasure 
of  a visit  to  his  son’s  during  the  approaching  holidays;  but 
I fancied  that  his  voice  assumed  a more  melancholy  tone 
than  usual  when  he  said,  “ It  is  a dreary  trip  at  best  during 
the  winter.  The  roads  are  in  a bad  condition,  and  I look 
forward  to  the  time,  with  no  little  anxiety,  when  I shall 
again  have  the  pleasure  of  passing  an  evening  with  you  and 
Alice  and  dear  little  Virgiline.”  I did  not  then  think  that 
he  was  so  soon  destined  to  leave  us  forever,  and  that  the 
walls  of  our  little  library  had  echoed  for  the  last  time  the 
musical  tones  of  his  much-loved  voice. 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


73 


The  next  morning  he  started  to  his  son’s.  The  day  was 
the  coldest  of  the  year.  He  made  the  trip  in  an  open  car- 
riage. The  exposure  gave  him  a severe  cold,  which  resulted 
in  an  attack  of  pneumonia.  Dr.  J.  W.  Benson,  of  Louis- 
ville, was  sent  for,  and,  though  he  treated  Mr.  Prentice’s 
disease  with  the  utmost  skill,  there  was  not  strength  enough 
in  his  enfeebled  constitution  to  rally  from  its  effects. 

He  submitted  to  the  treatment  of  his  physician  with  almost 
child-like  solicitude,  not  trusting  to  the  memory  of  any  one 
in  reference  to  directions,  but  always  insisting  upon  the 
physician  writing  them  out  himself.  He  had  his  medicines 
carefully  arranged,  with  the  directions  upon  each,  which  he 
compared  with  the  general  directions.  He  said  that  no  one 
could  be  too  particular  about  such  matters.  Dr.  Benson 
attributed  the  first  favorable  symptoms  of  the  disease,  in 
a great  measure,  to  this  constant  self-watchfulness.  Mr. 
Prentice  growing  worse,  and  apprehending  the  approach 
of  death,  expressed  a desire  to  write  some  letters,  and 
requested  the  assistance  of  a brother  Mason  to  act  as  his 
amanuensis.  One  was  procured.  Mr.  Prentice,  however, 
was  not  pleased  with  the  writing  of  his  amanuensis,  and 
asked  him  to  find  a brother  who  could  do  better.  Dr. 
Benson  then  offered  his  services.  When  the  Doctor  fin- 
ished writing,  he  handed  the  paper  to  Mr.  Prentice,  who 
looked  at  it  carefully,  and  said,  “Well,  well,  Doctor,  you 
have  fallen  into  a very  common  error  — of  using  a comma 
for  a period.”  Dr.  Benson  told  him  that  the  pen  was 
somewhat  unmanageable — that  the  stop  was  intended  for  a 
period,  and  that  if  he  would  look  at  the  next  sentence,  he 
would  see  that  it  began  with  a capital.  Mr.  Prentice  re- 
plied, “Yes,  yes,  I see  it  now.  I beg  your  pardon,  Doctor.  ’ ’ 

Mr.  Prentice  then  signed  the  letter,  laid  down  his  pen, 
and  said,  “This  is  the  last  time  I shall  be  able  to  sign  my 
name  upon  earth.” 

I saw  him  several  times  during  his  illness,  and  each  time 
thought  he  would  recover;  but  I believe  that  from  the  first 
7 


74 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


he  anticipated  his  own  destiny.  He  said,  “It  is  almost 
impossible  for  one  who  has  suffered  as  much  as  I have  to  get 
well ; but  I do  not  complain.  Death  has  no  terrors  for  me; 
this  world  is  not  our  only  home;  there  is  a brighter  and  a 
nobler  existence  beyond  the  grave.’ ’ 

About  a week  after  the  interview,  I saw  him  again.  He 
appeared  to  suffer  less  pain  than  at  any  time  during  his  ill- 
ness. He  inquired  kindly,  very  kindly,  about  some  of  his 
friends  in  Louisville,  and  expressed  a faint  hope  that  he 
should  be  able  to  go  to  see  them  in  a few  weeks ; but  I could 
see  in  his  countenance  that  he  was  calmly  and  patiently 
awaiting  the  hour  when  he  should  no  longer  be  a dweller 
beneath  the  skies. 

On  Friday,  the  21st  of  January,  he  sent  me  word  that  he 
was  dying.  I felt  it  my  duty  to  be  by  his  bedside.  The 
river  had  overflowed  its  banks,  and  the  messenger  who 
arrived  from  the  farm  reported  the  roads  in  an  almost  im- 
passable condition.  My  wife,  who  had  loved  and  admired 
Mr.  Prentice’s  poetry  from  her  childhood,  could  not  be 
dissuaded  from  accompanying  me. 

We  left  the  city  late  in  the  evening,  and,  after  proceed- 
ing some  distance,  we  were  compelled  to  leave  the  road 
and  go  through  a dense  wood  in  order  to  avoid  the  back- 
water. The  darkness  was  enough  to  appall  stouter  hearts 
than  ours.  At  last  we  reached  a temporary  lake,  which  had 
surrounded  the  house  of  the  dying. 

A little  boat  was  in  waiting  to  take  us  across  the  water; 
but  I shall  not  attempt  to  describe  the  picture  that  pre- 
sented itself  to  our  view  as  I lifted  my  wife  into  the  boat, 
and  saw  the  physician  standing  on  the  steps,  with  a flicker- 
ing lamp  in  his  hand,  reflecting  the  scene  of  death  in  the 
background. 

It  was  about  ten  o’clock  when  we  entered  the  room. 
Mr.  Prentice  had  been  in  a dying  condition  since  eight  in 
the  morning.  Not  a murmur  or  word  of  complaint  crossed 
his  lips.  My  wife  approached  his  bed,  and  said,  “ Do  you 


GEORGE  D.  PRENTICE. 


75 


know  me,  Mr.  Prentice?  ” He  did  not  recognize  her  at 
first,  and  thinking  she  was  Mrs.  Prentice’s  little  sister, 
Josephine,  said,  “ Yes,  it  is  Josephine;  ” but  when  my  wife 
told  him  her  name,  he  said,  “ Yes,  yes,  I know  you  now ; 
it  is  Alice.” 

Mr.  Prentice  was  in  the  full  possession  of  his  faculties 
until  the  last  moment  of  existence ; and  I have  been  in- 
formed by  Captain  J.  M.  Hewett,  who  faithfully  nursed  him 
throughout  his  sickness,  that  in  not  a single  instance  did  he 
abandon  that  patient  forbearance  and  elegant  politeness 
which  so  beautifully  characterized  all  his  actions  in  life. 

I have  heard  it  said  that  the  last  words  of  great  men  are 
great  like  themselves,  and  I felt  no  little  desire  to  hear 
the  last  words  of  Mr.  Prentice.  My  wife,  who  held  his 
hand  in  hers  at  the  time,  says  they  were,  (as  near  as  she 
could  understand  them,)  “ I want  to  go,  I want  to  go.” 
I have  often  stood  by  the  side  of  the  dying,  but  I never 
before  beheld  a death-scene  half  so  solemn  or  impressive. 
Mr.  Prentice’s  little  grandson,  Georgie,  was  asleep  on  a 
lounge  in  the  room,  unconscious  of  the  end  that  was  await- 
ing the  being  he  most  loved  upon  earth.  The  attending 
physician  had  ceased  to  hope  even  against  hope,  and,  weary 
with  watching,  fell  asleep  in  his  chair.  At  last,  Colonel 
Prentice  knelt  at  the  side  of  his  father,  and  exclaimed,  in 
accents  of  deepest  woe,  “ Pa,  Pa,  speak  to  me  once  more ; ” 
but  no  answering  word  came  to  relieve  the  awful  silence ; 
and  a few  moments  afterward  the  golden  bowl  was  broken, 
and  the  silver  cord  unstrung,  and  the  spirit  of  the  great  man 
winged  its  flight  to  the  bosom  of  the  God  who  gave  it. 

He  was  buried  in  Cave  Hill  Cemetery,  near  Louisville,  in 
accordance  with  the  beautiful  and  impressive  rites  of  the 
Masonic  Order,  of  which  he  was  for  many  years  an  hon- 
ored member. 

I shall  always  believe  that  he  was  indebted  in  a great  de- 


;6 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


gree  to  the  sublime  teachings  of  this  noble  brotherhood 
for  the  growth  and  development  of  the  strength,  beauty,  and 
wisdom  of  his  character.  As  yet  no  stone  marks  his  resting- 
place,  but  a monument  ere  long  will  be  erected  to  his  mem- 
ory ; for  the  people  of  Louisville  and  of  Kentucky  cannot 
forget  their  adopted  son,  who,  perhaps,  did  more  than  any 
other  man  to  carry  them  to  immortal  honors  and  glories. 


AUTOGRAPHS. 


7 


77 


AUTOGRAPHS. 


HE  collection  of  Autographs  seems  to  have  begun 


about  the  middle  of  the  sixteenth  century.  The 
Germans  claim  that  the  custom  first  originated  in  their  coun- 
try. I know  of  no  reason  to  deny  them  this  honor ; and  I 
cheerfully  accord  to  them  the  right  of  sharing  it  in  com- 
mon with  the  renown  of  giving  to  mankind  the  three  great 
elements  of  modern  civilization  — printing,  gunpowder, 
and  the  Protestant  religion  — and  of  being  the  first  to  catch 
the  light  of  Shakspeare’s  genius,  and  to  reflect  it  upon  the 


The  custom  is  said  to  have  originated  among  travellers, 
who  carried  with  them  a book  or  album  for  the  purpose  of 
securing  the  signatures  of  distinguished  persons.  The  old- 
est book  of  this  kind  is  dated  1558.  It  is  in  the  British 
Museum,  the  repository  of  the  most  valuable  collection  of 
autographs  in  the  world. 

Magna  Charta,  granted  in  1215,  is  also  deposited  there. 
This  instrument  serves  to  establish  the  fact  that  neither  the 
king  nor  any  of  his  nobles  could  write  their  own  names. 
The  signature  of  Shakspeare  is  perhaps  the  most  precious 
of  all  autographic  treasures.  Five  of  his  autographs, 
known  to  be  genuine,  have  been  preserved.  One  of  them 
is  his  last  will  and  testament,  and  is  deposited  at  Doctors7 
Commons,  London.  It  bears  his  signature  in  three  places. 

A number  of  scholars  have  tried  to  establish  the  theory 


world. 


79 


8o 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


that  the  character  may  be  determined  by  the  handwriting. 
Their  arguments,  however,  are  entitled  to  little  consideration. 

Hood,  in  one  of  his  essays,  makes  a good  deal  of  sport 
of  a gentleman  who  asked  him  for  his  autograph.  He 
pretended  not  to  know  what  kind  he  wanted,  and  said  au- 
tographs are  of  many  kinds.  For  instance,  he  said  charity 
boys  write  theirs  on  large  pieces  of  paper,  illuminated  with 
engraving ; Draco  wrote  his,  to  oblige  Themis,  in  human 
blood ; and  servants  sometimes  have  a habit  of  scrawling 
autographs  on  a tea-board  with  slopped  milk.  He  con- 
cluded by  telling  the  gentleman  that  as  he  had  not  sent  him 
a brick  wall,  or  a looking-glass,  or  a bill-stamp,  or  a kitch- 
en door,  that  he  supposed  he  wanted  a common  pen-ink- 
and-paper  autograph ; but  in  the  absence  of  any  particular 
direction  for  transmitting  it,  either  by  a carrier-pigeon  or 
in  a fire-balloon,  etc.,  he  would  send  him  one  in  print. 
Hood  was  fully  aware  of  the  dignity  of  the  profession  of 
the  genuine  autographic  collector,  but  could  not  resist  the 
temptation  of  indulging  in  his  quaint  and  inimitable  humor. 

The  collection  of  autographs,  pursued  in  the  proper 
spirit,  cannot  do  otherwise  than  increase  historical  and 
biographical  knowledge. 

One  of  the  most  distinguished  collectors  in  the  United 
States  is  Mr.  L.  J.  Cist,  of  St.  Louis.  He  is  not  only  a 
fine  scholar,  but  one  of  the  best  judges  of  the  genuineness 
of  letters  and  manuscripts  in  the  country.  He  was  for 
many  years  a resident  of  Cincinnati,  and  is  the  author  of  a 
volume  of  delightful  poems.  I had  heard  so  much  of  his 
famous  collection  that  I felt  no  little  curiosity  to  examine 
it  and  to  talk  with  him  about  it.  I went  to  St.  Louis,  a 
few  years  ago,  and  had  the  pleasure  of  making  his  ac- 
quaintance. He  received  me  with  the  utmost  kindness 
and  cordiality.  The  subject  of  autographs  was  soon  intro- 
duced, and  in  a few  moments  I found  myself  surrounded 
by  his  priceless  treasures.  He  informed  me  that  he  began 
his  collection  more  than  thirty  years  ago.  He  said  that  he 


AUTOGRAPHS. 


8l 


came  accidentally  into  the  possession  of  the  signatures  of 
three  Presidents  of  the  United  States  — Madison,  Monroe, 
and  John  Q.  Adams.  These  led  him  to  wish  for  others. 
He  then  undertook  to  make  a small  collection  of  some  of 
the  most  prominent  living  American  statesmen  and  authors, 
in  which  he  succeeded. 

His  collection  now  comprises  about  twelve  thousand 
letters  and  documents,  written  or  signed,  of  which  about  one- 
half  are  American,  the  rest  European,  with  a small  sprink- 
ling of  Asiatic  and  African  (the  Kings  of  Siam  and  Mada- 
gascar, Rammohun  Roy,  Hussein,  the  last  Dey  of  Algiers, 
the  Presidents  of  Liberia,  etc.,  etc.,)  illustrated  with  about 
eight  thousand  engraved  portraits  and  views,  and  not  less 
than  fifty  thousand  newspaper-cuttings  containing  biograph- 
ical, historical,  and  anecdotal  matters  of  interest,  relating 
to  the  persons  whose  autographs  they  illustrate,  classified 
as  follows  : 

AMERICAN ANTE-REVOLUTIONARY. 

Colonial  and  Royal  Governors,  Proprietaries,  Judges, 
Statesmen,  etc.,  before  the  Revolution,  in  which  may  be 
found  the  autographs  of  more  than  one  hundred  and  fifty 
of  the  original  Founders,  Proprietors,  and  early  Governors 
of  the  thirteen  colonies,  from  1630  to  1776,  including  such 
names  as  Roger  Williams,  Duke  of  York,  (James  II.,)  Lord 
Berkeley,  Sir  George  Carteret,  William  Penn  and  sons, 
George  Calvert,  first,  and  Cecil,  second  Lord  Baltimore, 
and  General  Oglethorpe,  founders  or  proprietaries.  Of 
the  Governors  of  Massachusetts  from  John  Endecott,  John 
Winthrop  and  Sir  Henry  Vane,  down  to  Hutchinson  and 
Gage,  the  last  two  Royal  Governors  of  Massachusetts, 
wanting  only  John  Ha,ynes  (Governor  from  1635  to  1636) 
to  be  complete.  Of  New  York,  Peter  Stuyvesant,  (an  au- 
tograph letter,)  Sir  Edmund  Andros,  (an  autograph  letter,) 
Thomas  Dongan,  Jacob  Leisler,  Sir  Charles  Hardy,  De- 


8 2 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


lancey,  Cadwallader  Colden,  General  Monckton,  Lord 
Dunmore,  and  the  last  Royal  Governor  Try  on.  Of  Penn- 
sylvania, Thomas,  Richard,  and  John  Penn,  Lloyd, 
Markham,  James  Logan,  (from  whom  the  famous  chief  was 
named,)  and  others.  Spottiswood,  Drysdale,  Dinwiddie, 
Fauquier,  etc.,  of  Virginia;  Dobbs,  Tryon,  Craven,  Mid- 
dleton, Francis  Nicholson,  Reynolds,  Wright  and  others 
of  North  and  South  Carolina  and  Georgia. 

Of  Statesmen  and  Judges,  are  Chief- Justice  Samuel  Sew- 
all,  of  Massachusetts;  also  the  Judges  who  tried,  and  George 
Corwin,  the  sheriff  who  hung  the  witches  at  Salem;  Colonel 
James  Otis,  the  elder,  (father  of  the  great  orator  and  pat- 
riot ;)  the  Delanceys,  (Oliver,  Stephen,  and  James,)  leading 
men  of  New  York  in  the  old  Colony  times;  etc.,  etc. 

Here  also  may  be  found  two  very  rare  documents  of  spe- 
cial interest  to  typos,  the  first  being  — 

“ The  humble  memorial  of  William  Bradford,  printer,  to  the  Governor 
and  Council  of  the  Province  of  New  York,  etc.,  sheweth : 

“ That  the  tenth  day  of  this  instant,  January,  there  was  one  quarter’s 
salary  due  to  him,  and  humbly  prays  that  it  may  be  allowed. 

“And,  further:  That,  whereas,  he  came  to  serve  their  Majesties  in 
this  government  by  printing  such  things  as  there  might  be  occasion  of 
for  their  Majesties’  service,”  etc.,  he  goes  on  to  state  that  “he  has 
printed  for  their  said  Majesties’  service  as  much  as  hath  stood  him  in 
£50  charge,  and  not  sold  of  the  same  to  the  value  of  £5,”  etc.,  and 
therefore  humbly  prays  their  favorable  consideration  of  the  same,”  and 
subscribes  himself,  etc. 

This  rare  and  precious  relic  of  the  first  printer  of  Penn- 
sylvania and  New  York  is  unfortunately  not  dated ; but  as 
“ their  Majesties’ ’ alluded  to  were  William  and  Mary,  the 
memorial  must  have  been  written  between  the  years  1693 
(in  which  Bradford  came  to  New  York)  and  1695,  in  which 
Queen  Mary  died.  Bradford  was  born  in  England  in  1659, 
came  to  America  in  1683,  and  landed  where  Philadelphia 
now  stands,  before  a house  was  built  there. 


AUTOGRAPHS. 


83 

He  was  the  first  printer  there,  and  in  1687  published  an 
almanac.  He  removed  to  New  York  city  in  1693,  and  was 
for  thirty  years  the  only  printer  in  the  Province,  now  State 
of  New  York,  and  in  1725  started  the  New  York  Gazette , 
the  first  newspaper  published  there.  He  died  May  23,  1752, 
at  the  ripe  old  age  of  ninety*  three. 

The  other  interesting  typographical  document  of  early 
date  referred  to,  is  a short  note  from  James  Franklin,  the 
elder  brother  of  Benjamin  Franklin,  with  whom  the  latter 
served  his  apprenticeship  and  learned  the  trade  of  a printer. 
He  started,  in  1722,  at  Boston,  the  New- England  Courant , 
which  was  the  third  paper  ever  started  in  America.  He 
afterward,  in  1732,  published  the  Rhode-Island  Gazette , the 
first  paper  published  in  the  Province  of  Rhode  Island. 

Any  one  familiar  with  the  well-known  chirography  of  Dr. 
Franklin,  looking  at  this  paper,  will  be  struck  by  the  re- 
markable similarity  in  the  style  of  handwriting  of  the  two 
brothers.  Probably  Benjamin,  who  was  younger  than  James, 
was  taught  to  write  by  his  brother.  If  so,  the  pupil  after- 
ward far  excelled  his  master  in  this,  as  in  most  other  acquire- 
ments. 

Next  we  have  in  this  division  the  Generals  and  officers 
of  the  French  and  Indian  Colonial  wars,  including  all  the 
British  Generals  commanding-in-chief  in  America, from  1 755 
to  1775,  viz.,  Braddock,  Shirley,  Loudoun,  Abercrombie, 
Amherst,  and  Gage,  together  with  many  Colonial  officers 
of  distinction,  such  as  Sir  William  Peppered,  Sir  William 
Johnson,  Generals  Dwight,  Waldo,  Winslow,  Colonel 
Ephraim  Williams,  and  others. 

Two  other  series  belonging  to  Colonial  times  and  history, 
are  the  Delegates  to  the  Convention  which  met  at  Albany 
in  1754,  and  the  members  of  the  Colonial  (or  Stamp  Act) 
Congress  of  1765,  the  former  consisting  of  twenty-five  dele- 
gates from  New  Hampshire,  Massachusetts,  Rhode  Island, 
Connecticut,  New  York,  Pennsylvania,  and  Maryland;  the 


84 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


latter  of  twenty  - seven  members,  representatives  of  the 
Colonies  of  Massachusetts,  Connecticut,  Rhode  Island,  New 
York,  New  Jersey,  Pennsylvania,  Delaware,  and  South 
Carolina.  Each  of  these  series  in  this  collection  lacks  but 
two  names  of  being  full  and  complete. 

As  the  names  and  memories  of  these,  the  earliest  repre- 
sentatives of  the  United  Colonies  of  North  America,  deserve 
to  be  held  in  perpetual  remembrance,  a full  and  it  is  be- 
lieved a correct  list  of  the  members  of  these  two  first 
American  Congresses  is  subjoined. 

MEMBERS  OF  THE  ALBANY  CONVENTION,  1 754. 

From  New  Hampshire. — Theodore  Atkinson,  Henry 
Sherburne,  Jr.,  Meshech  Weare,  Richard  Wibird.  qJaJo-CAA 

Massachusetts. — John  Chandler,  Thomas  Hutchinson, 
Oliver  Partridge,  Samuel  Welles,  John  Worthington. 

Connecticut. — William  Pitkin,  Elisha  Williams,  Roger 
Wolcott. 

Rhode  Island.  — Martin  Howard,  Stephen  Hopkins. 

New  York.  — John  Chambers,  James  DeLancey,  Sir 
William  Johnson,  Joseph  Murray,  William  Smith,  Jr. 

Pennsylvania. — Benjamin  Franklin,  Isaac  Norris,  John 
Penn,  Richard  Peters. 

Maryland. — Abraham  Barnes,  Benjamin  Tasker. 

MEMBERS  OF  THE  COLONIAL  CONGRESS,  1 765. 

Massachusetts. — James  Otis,  Jr.,  Oliver  Partridge, 
Timothy  Ruggles. 

Connecticut.  — Eliphalet  Dyer,  William  Samuel  Johnson, 
David  Rowland. 

Rhode  Island. — Metcalf  Bowler,  Henry  Ward. 

New  York. — William  Bayard,  John  Cruger,  Leonard 
Lispenard,  Philip  Livingston,  Robert  R.  Livingston,  Sen. 

New  Jersey. — Joseph  Borden,  Hendrick  Fischer,  Robert 
Ogden. 


AUTOGRAPHS.  85 

Pennsylvania. — George  Bryan,  John  Dickinson,  John 
Morton. 

Delaware.  — Caesar  Rodney,  Thomas  McKean. 

Maryland.  — William  Murdock,  Thomas  Ringold,  Ed- 
ward Tilghman. 

South  Carolina.  — Christopher  Gadsden,  Thomas  Lynch, 
Sen.,  John  Rutledge. 

The  Congress  met  in  New  York,  October  7,  1765,  and 
chose  Timothy  Ruggles  President,  and  John  Cotton  Secre- 
tory. 

The  earliest  American  paper  in  the  collection  is  an  auto- 
graph of  Governor  John  Winthrop,  of  Massachusetts,  bear- 
ing date  “(3)  23  — 40” — March  23,  1640.  A document 
signed  by  Thomas  Dudley,  Governor  in  1645,  is  the  only 
other  American  specimen  ‘of  earlier  date  than  1650.  There 
are  some  eighteen  or  twenty  written  between  1650  and  1685, 
between  which  latter  date  and  the  close  of  the  seventeenth 
century  the  specimens  are  numerous. 

The  reader’s  attention  is  now  invited  to  another  part  of 
the  collection,  if  possible  still  more  interesting.  It  is  the 
department  devoted  to  the  autographs  of  distinguished  men 
during  what  may  be  called  the  Revolutionary  period, 
from  1774  to  1788.  It  opens  at  once  to  the  student  a 
world  of  thought  and  reflection.  It  embraces  the  pro- 
minent Generals  and  Statesmen,  not  only  of  the  Revolu- 
tion, from  1775  to  1783,  but  up  to  the  time  of  the  Constitu- 
tion of  1787,  when  the  Confederation  gave  way  to  the  more 
vigorous  form  of  our  present  government.  This  depart- 
ment includes  the  following  subdivision  : 

THE  SIGNERS  OF  THE  DECLARATION  OF  INDEPENDENCE. 

It  contains  one  or  more  original  letters  or  documents  of 
every  one  of  the  signers  of  that  instrument.  Some  of  these 
letters  are  of  the  deepest  interest,  as,  for  example,  where 
Josiah  Bartlett,  of  New  Hampshire,  writes,  under  date  of 
8 


86 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE 


January  29,  1775:  “This  colony  chose  deputies,  who  met 
in  congress  at  Exeter  the  1 7th  day  of  May  last,  and  agreed 
to  raise  two  thousand  men  for  the  common  defence  of  the 
colonies;  ’ J or  where  William  Whipple,  in  September,  1776, 
says:  “ It  seems  to  be  settled  that  our  troops  have  quitted 
Long  Island.  The  consequence,  I fear,  will  be  that  they 
must  also  evacuate  New  York;”  or  where  John  Adams 
writes  Elbridge  Gerry,  from  Paris,  1780:  “What  am  I to 
do  for  money  ? Not  one  line  have  I received  from  Con- 
gress or  any  member  of  Congress  since  I left  America.” 
There  is  also  a letter  from  William  Williams,  dated  May 
2S^I77S>  to  the  “Delegates  from  Connecticut  to  ye  Gen- 
eral Congress,”  with  a reply  to  the  same,  signed  by  Eli- 
phalet  Dyer  and  Roger  Sherman,  relating  to  the  capture  of 
Ticonderoga.  The  answer  of  William  Floyd,  dated  July 
4,  1821,  to  the  address  of  his  fellow-citizens  who  had  met 
to  celebrate  the  anniversary  of  Independence,  is  of  special 
interest,  when  we  think  that  he  was  then  in  his  87th  year, 
and  that  he  died  August  4,  1821,  precisely  one  month 
afterward. 

Here  is  found  a letter  from  Dr.  Franklin,  written  in  1750, 
enclosing  a plan  of  a course  of  study  “ for  the  English 
School,”  for  which,  he  says,  “I  am  very  unfit,  having 
neither  been  educated  myself  (except  as  a tradesman)  nor 
concerned  in  the  education  of  others.”  Another  letter  of 
Franklin  to  his  wife,  dated  London,  July  5,  1769,  is  char- 
acteristic for  the  style  of  its  address,  commencing,  “My 
dear  child,”  and  ending,  “Your  affectionate  husband,  B. 
Franklin.” 

Here  are  letters  of  Robert  Morris,  the  great  financier  of 
the  Revolution,  some  written  when  he  filled  the  office  of 
Secretary  of  Finance,  and  others  penned  in  jail,  while  con- 
fined as  a prisoner  for  debt.  One  member  of  the  Pennsyl- 
vania delegation,  writing  to  his  wife,  in  1776,  concludes 
with,  “I  am  in  good  health  and  spirits,  and  live  mostly  at 


AUTOGRAPHS, 


87 


my  own  little  house,  as  the  people  call  it.  Give  Peggy, 
Betsy,  and  Jim  each  a buss  for  me.  I write  this  in  Con- 
gress chamber,  not  having  time  to  go  to  my  lodging,  and 
am,  dear  Ellen,  your  loving  and  affectionate  spouse, 
James  Smith.  Mr..  Hancock  calls  me  to  the  other  room. 
Adieu.  J.  S.” 

A long  letter  from  William  Hooper  details  the  landing 
of  the  enemy,  in  1781,  at  Wilmington,  and  the  capture  of 
his  family  and  property  there,  saying:  “ Where  I shall  go 
from  this,  God  knows.  The  world  is  open  before  me. 
Without  a family  and  without  property,  I bear  my  all  about 
me.  I can  move  easily.’ 9 

Francis  Lightfoot  Lee,  writing  to  his  brother,  Richard 
Henry  Lee,  in  1777,  from  Yorktown,  says:  “I  have  re- 
ceived no  letters  from  Richmond  these  two  posts  past 
There  is  some  rascality  in  the  post-office.  I wish  you  could 
find  it  out.”  Postmasters,  even  in  those  early  days,  were 
not  always  immaculate. 

We  have  here  a letter  from  John  Hancock  (1778)  to  Dr. 
Franklin  in  Paris,  one  from  John  Adams  (1779)  to  Arthur 
Lee,  from  Robert  Treat  Paine  (1778)  to  Elbridge  Gerry, 
- Roger  Sherman  (1781)  to  Josiah  Bartlett,  Francis  Lewis 
(1778)  to  Governor  George  Clinton,  Charles  Carroll  to 
General  Washington,  Thomas  Jefferson  (1779)  to  Richard 
Henry  Lee,  Richard  Henry  Lee  (August,  1776)  to  Patrick 
Henry,  and  Thomas  Nelson,  Jr.,  to  B.  Harrison. 

Here  I saw  an  autograph  of  Thomas  Lynch,  Jr.,  cut  from 
the  fly-leaf  of  a book,  the  only  kind  extant.  His  letters 
have  been  sought  for,  without  success,  by  collectors  in  South 
Carolina  and  elsewhere.  One  letter,  only,  written  by  him 
to  General  Washington,  and  now  in  the  possession  of  Dr. 
Sprague,  is  known  by  American  collectors  to  be  in  exist- 
ence. Even  his  mere  signature  is  very  scarce. 

Forty-eight  autographs  of  this  department  are  what  are 


88 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


called  holographs , that  is,  letters  or  documents  entirely 
written  and  signed  by  the  writers. 

A large  majority  of  the  signers  of  this  instrument  had 
passed  from  the  stage  of  action  more  than  a generation  be- 
fore Mr.  C.  began  his  collection.  It  will  be  seen  that  his 
task  was  one  of  the  utmost  difficulty.  He  accomplished  it 
in  about  fifteen  years.  His  success  in  its  final  completion 
is  equalled  only  by  the  energy  and  patience  he  brought  to 
bear  upon  it. 

I regret  that  I have  time  only  to  notice  briefly  that  part 
of  Mr.  Cist’s  collection  comprising  the  distinguished  “ Gen- 
erals and  Officers  of  the  Revolutionary  War.”  He  has  in 
this  department  about  three  hundred  and  fifty  original  let- 
ters, including  letters  from  Washington,  Kosciusko,  De  Kalb, 
Steuben,  Charles  Lee,  Wayne,  Marion,  Sumter,  Pickens, 
Montgomery,  Warren,  Wooster,  Stark,  Ethan  Allen,  and 
others.  This  branch  of  his  collection  is  illustrated  by  two 
hundred  engraved  portraits.  It  also  includes  letters  from  a 
number  of  distinguished  British  officers,  such  as  Burgoyne, 
Howe,  Clinton,  Rawdon,  and  Cornwallis.  There  is  also  a 
letter  from  the  famous  Indian  chief,  Joseph  Brandt,  or 
Thayendenegea,  written  in  1795,  in  which  he  expresses,  in 
very  good  English,  his  indignation  at  the  Indians  being 
compared  to  the  French.  “Indians,”  he  says,  “are  not 
wholly  destitute  of  humanity,  but  from  present  appearances 
it  seems  to. have  fled  from  France.” 

There  is  another  division  which  comprises  the  Presidents 
and  members  of  the  old  (or  Continental)  Congresses,  from 
1774  to  1778.  This  interesting  series  contains  autographs 
of  all  the  Presidents,  (fourteen  in  number,)  and  about  three 
hundred  of  the  three  hundred  and  fifty  Revolutionary 
worthies  who  represented  their  States  (the  old  thirteen)  in 
Congress  during  the  fifteen  years  above  mentioned.  The 
Presidents  were  Peyton  Randolph,  Henry  Middleton,  (act- 
ing for  a few  days  only,)  John  Hancock,  Henry  Laurens, 


AUTOGRAPHS. 


S9 


John  Jay,  Samuel  Huntington,  Thomas  McKean,  John 
Hanson,  Elias  Boudinot,  Thomas  Mifflin,  Richard  Henry 
Lee,  Nathaniel  Gorham,  Arthur  St.  Clair,  and  Cyrus  Griffin. 

Next  after  the  Continental  Congresses  comes  the  Annap- 
olis Convention  of  1786,  the  precursor  of  the  Federal  Con- 
vention of  1787,  which  formed  the  present  Constitution  of 
the  United  States. 

This  Convention,  called  by  the  Congress,  consisted  of 
the  following  delegates  from  their  respective  States : Alex- 
ander Hamilton  and  Egbert  Benson,  New  York ; Abra- 
ham Clark,  William  C.  Houston,  and  James  Schureman, 
New  Jersey;  Tench  Coxe,  Pennsylvania;  John  Dickinson, 
George  Read,  and  Richard  Bassett,  Delaware ; James  Mad- 
ison, Edmund  Randolph,  and  St.  George  Tucker,  Virginia. 
It  met  September  n,  1786,  chose  John  Dickinson  as  its 
chairman,  and  adjourned  September  14,  having  limited  its 
labors  to  the  recommendation  of  a more  general  conven- 
tion from  all  the  States,  to  be  held  in  Philadelphia,  the  fol- 
lowing year. 

That  Convention,  which  met  in  May,  1787,  is  generally 
known  as  the  “ Federal  Convention  of  1787, ” and  its 
members  are  designated  by  autograph  collectors  as  the 
“Signers”  or  “Framers  of  the  Constitution  of  the  United 
States.” 

The  number  of  Delegates  who  attended  the  Convention, 
and  took  part  in  its  proceedings,  who  may  be  called  the 
“Framers  of  the  Constitution,”  was  55,  of  whom,  how- 
ever, only  37  (including  George  Washington  as  President, 
and  William  Jackson  as  Secretary),  were  actually  Signers 
of  the  instrument  when  completed.  Besides  the  55  dele- 
gates in  attendance,  there  were  10  others  (65  in  all)  origin- 
ally appointed,  but  who  declined,  or  failed  to  attend  the 
Convention.  It  will  be  seen  it  is  thus  a difficult  matter,  in 
making  a list  or  collection  of  the  autographs  of  the  “Mem- 
bers of  the  Federal  Convention,”  or  “Signers  of  the  Con- 
8* 


9o 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


stitution,”  to  decide  of  how  many  or  of  what  najnes  it  shall 
be  composed.  Some  collectors  confine  themselves  to  the 
Signers  proper,  others  collect  all  the  members  who  actually 
attended  the  Convention.  Mr.  C.  having,  many  years  ago, 
completed  both  these,  subsequently  extended  his  plan  to 
embrace  all  those  who  were  elected  or  appointed  delegates  to 
the  Convention,  whether  they  attended  it  or  not ; and  his 
series  now  consists  of  choice  letters  of  every  such  delegate, 
with  but  a single  exception. 

The  next  grand  division  of  the  collection  maybe  entitled, 
as  it  is  coincident  with, 

THE  UNITED  STATES  GOVERNMENT. 

It  contains  the  following  series,  all  of  them  complete , from 
Washington’s  inauguration,  in  1789,  to  the  present  time. 
The  Presidents  and  Vice-Presidents  of  the  United  States; 
Secretaries  of  State,  Treasury,  War,  Navy,  and  Interior, 
Postmasters-General,  and  Attorneys-General  of  the  United 
States ; Chief  and  Associate  Justices  of  the  Supreme  Court 
of  the  United  States;  and  Speakers  of  Congress.  Diplo- 
matic— embracing  all  the  Ministers  from  this  country  to 
the  leading  Courts  of  Europe,  and  many  of  the  representa- 
tives of  those  Courts  to  the  United  States  since  1789.  Gov- 
ernors of  the  various  States  and  Territories,  since  1776  — 
of  many  of  the  States  the  names  are  quite  complete,  and  of 
all  of  them,  nearly  so.  United  States  Senators,  from  1789 
down  — also  complete  in  respect  to  most  of  the  States,  and 
nearly  so  as  to  the  others.  Members  of  Congress,  contain- 
ing only  such  names,  not  included  in  other  series,  as  are  of 
special  distinction,  such  as  Matthew  Lyon,  Fisher  Ames, 
Tristam  Burges,  John  Randolph  of  Roanoke,  David  Crock- 
ett, and  others  “of  that  ilk.”  A complete  collection  of 
all  who  have  ever  held  a seat  in  the  Lower  House  of  Con- 
gress, it  would  be,  if  not  an  impossibility,  an  extremely 
difficult  task  to  form ; and  as  such  a collection  would  be  of 


AUTOGRAPHS.  91 

but  little  value  or  interest  when  made,  Mr.  Cist  has,  very 
wisely,  never  undertaken  its  accomplishment. 

To  this  division  also  belong  two  interesting  series  — the 
Army  and  Navy  of  the  United  States  — classified  as 
follows : 

U.  S.  Army. — Indian  Wars  of  the  West.  — Harmar,  St. 
Clair,  Wayne,  Wilkinson,  Richard  Butler,  Posey,  Logan, 
Todd,  Trigg,  George  Rogers  Clarke,  Boone,  Kenton,  etc. 

War  of  1812-15.  — Generals  Harrison,  Pike,  and  Win- 
chester ; Colonels  Allen,  Jo.  Daviess,  Shelby,  and  Croghan ; 
Generals  Dearborn,  Hull/  Izard,  Brown,  Ripley,  Scott, 
Macomb,  Miller,  Hampton,  Pinckney,  Jackson,  Coffee, 
Adair,  and  many  others. 

War  with  Mexico,  1846-48.  — Generals  Taylor,  Scott, 
Worth,  and  Wool,  together  with  all  the  Generals  of  the 
volunteer  service  during  the  war;  Colonel  Doniphan,  Major 
Ringgold,  Captains  Bragg  and  May,  Kit  Carson,  etc. 

War  of  the  Rebellion , 1861-65. — All  the  prominent 
Generals  on  both  sides,  containing  letters  of  over  three  hun- 
dred Union  and  about  fifty  Confederate  Generals,  all  more 
or  less  distinguished  in  the  war.  Also  the  leading  officials  — 
President  and  Vice-President,  and  all  the  various  Cabinet 
officers  of  the  quasi  Confederate  Government.  This  entire 
collection,  relating  to  the  “War  of  the  Rebellion,”  is  pro- 
fusely illustrated  with  portraits,  engraved  and  photographic, 
together  with  an  immense  variety  of  extracts  from  the  news- 
papers of  the  day,  consisting  of  biographical  sketches,  ac- 
counts of  battles,  despatches  from  the  field,  and  incidents 
of  the  war — the  history  of  the  time  epitomized — contain- 
ing much  important  and  interesting  matter,  some  of  which 
may  yet  be  of  great  value  to  future  historians  of  “our  late 
little  unpleasantness.” 

U.  S.  Navy. — American  Revolutionary . — Commodores 
Hopkins,  Barry,  James  and  Samuel  Nicholson,  Paul  Jones, 
Manley,  Talbot,  Dale,  Murray,  Barney,  Preble,  and  others. 


92 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


War  of  1812.  — Bainbridge,  Hull,  Decatur,  Barron,  Law- 
rence, O.  H.  Perry,  McDonough,  Jones,  Chauncey,  War- 
rington, Biddle,  Porter,  Rodgers,  Stewart,  Shubrick,  and 
others;  together  with  M.  T.  Perry  (of  the  Japan  Expe- 
dition), Wilkes,  Dupont,  Farragut,  Foote,  Winslow,  and 
Worden  — in  fact,  nearly  all  the  great  names  which  have 
shed  such  a lustre  on  our  naval  history,  from  its  first  com- 
mencement down  to  the  present  day. 

The  remainder  of  the  collection,  which  may  be  ranged 
under  the  general  head  of 

* 

LITERARY,  SCIENTIFIC,  AND  MISCELLANEOUS, 
is  further  subdivided  into 

Authors.  — Historians  and  Biographers , Novelists  and 
Belles-Letterists , Poets , etc.  — Some  of  the  more  rare  and 
eminent  names  in  this  department  are  Belknap,  Gordon, 
Ramsay,  Marshall,  Bancroft,  Prescott,  Hildreth,  and  Mot- 
ley; Charles  Brockden  Brown,  Irving,  Cooper,  Paulding, 
Hawthorne,  Bird,  Kennedy,  and  Simms ; Trumbull,  Bar- 
low,  Dwight,  Peter  Freneau,  Brainard,  Percival,  Halleck, 
Bryant,  and  in  fact  all  the  best  American  poets  of  the  last 
half-century.  One  of  the  most  pleasing  features  in  this 
division  is  a collection  of  over  one  hundred  MSS.  poems, 
or  autograph  copies  made  by  the  respective  authors,  of 
some  of  the  best-known  productions  of  the  American  muse. 
Here  Halleck’s  “ Marco  Bozzaris,,,  (entire,)  Pierpont’s 
“ Stand  ! the  ground’s  your  own,  my  braves  ! ” Bryant’s 
“Mother’s  Hymn,”  Longfellow’s  “Children’s  Hour,” 
Wordsworth’s  “Old  Oaken  Bucket,”  Mrs.  Welby’s 
“ Green  mossy  banks  where  the  buttercups  grew,”  together 
with  “Hail  Columbia,”  “The  Star-Spangled  Banner,” 
“My  Country,  ’tisof  thee,”  and  “Home,  Sweet  Home,” 
may  all  be  read  in  their  respective  authors’  own  handwrit- 
ing ; and,  as  it  may  be  presumed,  with  their  latest  correc- 


AUTOGRAPHS. 


93 


tions  and  most  improved  readings,  as  they  were  thus  care- 
fully copied,  at  Mr.  Cist’s  request,  for  this  most  interesting 
collection. 

Artists. — Painters , Sculptors , Engravers , Actors , Sing- 
ers, and  Composers . — Smibert,  Copley,  West,  C.  W.  Peale, 
Trumbull,  Yanderlyn,  Dunlap,  Allston,  Inman,  Cole,  Leslie, 
and  Sully;  Powers,  Greenough,  Clevenger,  Palmer,  and 
Miss  Hosmer ; Thomas  A.  Cooper,  Booth  (the  elder), 
Forrest,  Finn,  Hilson,  Barnes,  Burton,  H.  Placide,  etc.,  etc. 

Scientific.  — Eminent  Physicians  and  Surgeons , Nat- 
uralists, Inventors , Travellers , Arctic  Voyagers,  etc.  — 
Drs.  John  and  Samuel  Bard,  Redman,  Rush,  Morgan, 
Wistar,  Barton,  Hosack,  Mitchill,  Warren,  Mott,  etc.  ; 
John  and  William  Bartram,  Audubon,  Say,  Maclure,  God- 
man,  Morton,  Silliman,  Agassiz ; Thomas  Godfrey,  Frank- 
lin, Morse,  Fitch,  Fulton,  Evans,  Perkins,  Whitney,  Howe, 
Ericsson  ; John  L.  Stephens,  Bayard  Taylor,  Captain  James 
Riley,  Dr.  E.  K.  Kane,  Captain  Hall,  and  others. 

Educational.  — Presidents  and  Professors  of  the  lead- 
ing Colleges  in  the  United  States. — Dartmouth,  Harvard 
(Presidents  complete,  since  1685)  > Yale  — wanting  only  its 
first  President,  Pierson,  and  with  a fine  letter  of  Elihu  Yale, 
its  patron  and  godfather;  Brown  University,  King’s  (now 
Columbia)  College,  Rutgers,  Princeton,  University  of  Penn- 
sylvania, Dickinson  College,  at  Carlisle,  and  others. 

Clerical. — Embracing  the  most  eminent  Divmes  of  all 
denominations,  from  the  close  of  the  17th  century  to  the 
present  day.  Increase  and  Cotton  Mather,  Rev.  John 
Williams,  of  Deerfield,  (“  The  Redeemed  Captive,”)  Pem- 
berton, Foxcroft,  Sewall,  Mather  Byles,  Edwards,  Bellamy, 
Hopkins,  Stiles,  Dwight,  William  Tennent,  Finley,  Wither- 
spoon, Ewing,  Rogers,  J.  M.  Mason,  John  Blair  Linn, 
Miller,  the  Alexanders,  Stuart,  Taylor,  Barnes,  and  Lyman 
Beecher;  H.  M.  andG.  H.  E.  Muhlenberg,  J.  H.  Livingston, 


94 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Staughton,  Wayland,  Jesse  Lee,  John  Summerfield,  J.  N. 
Maffitt,  Stockton,  Milnor,  Bedell,  Hawks,  Channing, 
Ware,  Dewey,  Alexander  Campbell,  etc.,  etc.  Also  the 
Missionaries , Sergeant,  Hawley,  Kirkland,  Heckewelder, 
Zeisberger,  Samuel  Newell,  Gordon  Hall,  Fisk,  Parsons, 
Judson,  Jonas  King,  and  others.  It  contains  also,  a com- 
plete series  of  the  Bishops  of  the  Protestant  Episcopal 
Church  since  the  commencement ; another  (nearly  complete) 
of  the  Methodist  Bishops  in  the  United  States,  from  Cokfe 
and  Asbury  down ; together  with  all  the  Archbishops,  and 
most  of  the  eminent  Bishops  of  the  Roman  Catholic  Church, 
from  its  first  American  Bishop,  John  Carroll,  to  the  present 
day. 

Miscellaneous.  — Distinguished  Jurists,  Judges,  and 
Lawyers ; Editors  and  Politicians ; Hartford  Convention, 
etc.,  etc.  ; while  a curious  miscellaneous  medley  brings  up 
the  rear,  in  which  the  names  of  Lafitte  the  Pirate,  Burr  and 
Blennerhassett,  Walker,  Lopez,  and  other  filibusters  ; Davy 
Crockett,  Lorenzo  Dow,  and  Lord  Timothy  Dexter  ; the 
Rapps,  Robert  Owen,  and  Fanny  Wright;  Joe  Smith  and 
Brigham  Young ; the  Siamese  Twins,  Barnum,  and  Tom 
Thumb  ; John  Ross  the  Cherokee  chief,  William  Lloyd 
Garrison,  and  John  Brown,  whose 

“ Body  lies  mouldering  in  the  grave, 

While  his  soul  is  marching  on  ” — 

all  jostle  each  other,  or,  like 

“ Black  spirits  and  white, 

Blue  spirits  and  gray. 

Mingle,  mingle,  mingle, 

Those  that  mingle  may.” 


mm 


ii  jamg 


VATHEK. 


95 


VATHEK. 


HIS  celebrated  Oriental  story  was  written  at  one  sit- 


ting, in  French,  by  Sir  William  Beckford,  of  Font- 
hill,  England,  when  about  twenty-four  years  of  age.  “It  took 
me,”  says  the  author,  “three  days  and  two  nights  of  hard 
labor.  I never  took  my  clothes  off  the  whole  time.  The 
severe  application  made  me  very  ill. ’I 

The  idiom  was  so  correct,  and  the  style  so  pure,  that  it 
was  difficult  o believe,  at  the  time  of  its  appearance,  that 
it  was  not  the  work  of  a Frenchman.  The  original  was  first 
printed  at  Lausanne,  in  1786.  It  was  shortly  afterward 
translated  into  English  by  Dr.  Henley,  under  the  author’s 
directions.  In  the  preface  to  the  London  edition  of  1815, 
the  author  says : 

“ Les  editions  de  Paris  et  de  Lausanne,  etant  devenu  ex- 
tremement  rares.  J’ai  consenti  enfin  a ce  que  Ton  republi 
at  a Londres  ce  petit  ouvrage  tel  que  je  l’ai  compose.  La 
traduction,  comme,  on  s^ait,  a paru  avant  V original ; il  est 
fort  aise  de  croire  que  n’&oit  pas  mon  intention  des  circon- 
stances  peu  interessantes  pour  le  public,  en  ont  ete  la  cause.” 
“ Vathek  ” is,  perhaps,  the  most  interesting  Oriental  story 
ever  written.  It  abounds  in  scenes  of  surpassing  beauty 
and  magnificence.  Its  splendor  of  description,  varied  live- 
liness of  humor,  gorgeous  richness  of  fancy,  and  wild  and 
supernatural  interest,  are  perhaps  unequalled  in  the  whole 
range  of  fictitious  literature.  It  seems  as  if  all  the  sweets 
of  Asia  are  poured  out  upon  it.  It  is  full  of  glittering  pal- 
9 97 


98 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


aces,  and  temples,  and  towers;  of  jeweled  halls,  tables  of 
agate,  and  cabinets  of  ebony  and  pearl ; of  crystal  fountains, 
radiant  columns,  and  arcades,  and  perfumes  burning  in  cen- 
sers of  gold. 

Lord  Byron  says,  that  “even  Rasselas  must  bow  before 
it,  and  the  Happy  Valley  will  not  bear  a comparison  to 
the  Hall  of  Eblis.” 

It  is  pervaded  by  an  awful  spirit  of  mockery  and  derision, 
which  contrasts  strangely  with  the  author’s  reflections  at  the 
conclusion  of  the  story. 

The  history  of  the  author’s  life  is  scarcely  less  wonderful 
than  his  book.  He  was  the  son  of  Sir  William  Beckford,  a 
prominent  English  politician  in  the  time  of  George  III. 
The  elder  Beckford  distinguished  himself  by  a speech  ad- 
dressed to  the  King,  in  which  he  dared  to  upbraid  his  coun- 
sellors, and  to  denounce  them  as  enemies  to  the  constitu- 
tion and  laws  of  the  country.  The  city  of  London  erected 
a statue  to  his  memory,  with  the  speech  engraved  upon  the 
pedestal. 

The  fortune  he  left  his  son  was  one  of  the  largest  in  Eng- 
land. His  income  was  more  than  half  a million  dollars  per 
annum.  Young  Beckford  early  displayed  talents  of  the 
highest  order.  His  education  was  conducted  by  some  of 
the  most  eminent  men  of  the  nation.  The  Earl  of  Chat- 
ham and  Lord  Camden  directed  his  studies  in  literature 
and  philosophy,  Mozart  instructed  him  in  the  science  of 
music,  and  Sir  W.  Chambers  in  architecture.  He  was  not 
only  versed  in  the  classics,  but  was  enabled  to  speak  and 
write  in  nearly  all  the  living  languages  of  the  earth,  includ- 
ing the  Persian  and  the  Arabic.  He  endeavored  to  make 
himself  familiar  with  every  branch  of  science.  He  studied 
not  only  the  natural,  but  the  supernatural,  the  possible,  and 
the  fantastical.  He  wrote,  when  but  seventeen  years  of 
age,  “ The  Memoirs  of  Extraordinary  Painters,”  a work  in 
which  the  richest  humor  and  the  keenest  powers  of  sarcasm 


VATHEK. 


99 


are  displayed.  The  author’s  account  of  this  work  is  in- 
tensely amusing.  In  a conversation  with  Cyrus  Redding, 
he  said : 

“ The  housekeeper  at  Fonthill  used,  as  is  customary,  to 
get  her  fee  for  exhibiting  the  pictures  to  those  who  came  to 
see  them.  Once  or  twice  I overheard  her  give  the  most 
extraordinary  names  to  different  artists,  and  expatiate  on 
excellences  of  which  the  picture  before  had  no  trace.  The 
temptation  was  irresistible.  I was  but  seventeen.  It  was 
published,  and  soon  became  the  text  book,  and  was  on  the 
tongues  of  the  domestics.  Many  were  the  quotations  cur- 
rent on  the  merits  of  ‘ Og  of  Basan/  and  ‘ Water  Souchy 
of  Amsterdam/  before  a picture  of  Rubens  or  Murillo.  I 
used  to  listen,  unobservedly,  until  I was  ready  to  kill  my- 
self with  laughing.  The  squires  took  it  all  for  gospel.” 

Beckford  is  also  the  author  of  a brilliant  series  of  letters, 
entitled,  “ Italy,  with  Sketches  of  Spain  and  Portugal,”  and 
a work  called  “ Recollections  of  an  Excursion  to  the  Mon- 
asteries of  Alcobaca  and  Batalha.  ’ ’ 

The  former  work  attracted  a great  deal  of  attention.  The 
Athenceum  said:  “It  is  no  more  a book  of  travels  than 
‘ Childe  Harold.  ’ It  is  a prose  poem.  There  are  scenes  in 
it  not  to  be  excelled  in  modern  poetry  — pictures  where 
words  are  as  rich  in  color  and  in  beauty  as  the  pencil  of 
Turner.”  It  is  said  that  Moore,  Rogers,  and  Byron  did 
not  hesitate  to  appropriate  some  of  its  finest  passages.  The 
following  extract  from  it  is  remarkable  both  for  beauty  of 
thought  and  splendor  and  variety  of  imagery : 

“I  left  them  to  walk  on  the  beach,  and  was  so  charmed 
that  I remained  half  an  hour.  More  than  two  hundred 
vessels  of  different  sizes  were  in  sight,  the  last  sunbeams 
purpling  their  sails  and  casting  a path  of  innumerable  bril- 
liants athwart  the  waves.  What  would  I have  given  to  fol- 
low this  shining  track  ? It  might  have  conducted  me  straight 


100 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


to  those  fortunate  Western  climates,  those  happy  isles  you 
are  so  fond  of  painting  and  I of  dreaming/ 7 

Attention  has  been  called  to  the  marked  resemblance  in 
the  above  to  the  following,  from  Moore's  Irish  Melodies: 

“ How  dear  to  me  the  hour  when  daylight  dies, 

And  sunbeams  melt  along  the  silent  sea, 

For  then  sweet  dreams  of  other  days  arise, 

And  memory  breathes  her  vesper  sigh  for  thee. 

And  as  I watch  the  line  of  light  that  plays 
Along  the  smooth  wave  to  the  burning  West, 

I long  to  tread  that  golden  path  of  rays, 

And  think  ’twould  lead  to  some  bright  isle  of  rest.” 

In  1794,  Beckford  removed  to  Portugal,  and  constructed 
a magnificent  palace  at  Cintra,  which  was  allowed  to  go  to 
destruction  on  his  return  to  England.  It  suggested  the  fol- 
lowing reflections  in  “ Childe  Harold 

“ There,  thou  too,  Vathek!  England’s  wealthiest  son, 

Once  formed  thy  paradise,  as  not  aware, 

When  wanton  wealth  her  mightiest  deeds  hath  done, 

Meek  peace  voluptuous  lures  was  ever  wont  to  shun  ; 

Here  didst  thou  dwell,  here  schemes  of  pleasure  plan, 
Beneath  yon  mountain’s  ever  beauteous  brow. 

But  now,  as  if  a thing  unblest  by  man, 

Thy  fairy  dwelling  is  as  lone  as  thou ! 

Here  giant  weeds  a passage  scarce  allow, 

To  halls  deserted,  portals  gaping  wide; 

Fresh  lessons  to  the  thinking  bosom,  how 
Vain  are  the  pleasaunces  on  earth  supplied, 

Swept  into  wrecks  anon  by  Time’s  ungentle  tide.” 

He  seemed  to  live  only  to  “ realize  the  dreams  and  fic- 
tions of  his  fancy."  He  had  as  great  a passion  for  build- 
ing palaces  and  towers  as  Vathek  himself.  It  is  said  that 
he  embodied  in  his  residence  at  Fonthill  much  of  the  splen- 
dor of  the  Hall  of  Eblis.  The  magnificent  mansion  erected 
by  his  father,  at  a cost  of  nearly  a million  dollars,  failed  to 
satisfy  his  fastidious  taste.  He  had  it  pulled  down,  and 


VATHEK. 


IOI 


built  upon  its  ruins  a palace  famed  throughout  the  world 
for  its  architectural  beauty  and  costly  magnificence.  This 
wondrous  structure  seemed  to  spring  into  existence  as  if  by 
enchantment.  He  employed  four  hundred  and  sixty  men 
to  work  upon  it  by  day  and  night.  It  is  said  that,  at  one 
time,  every  cart  and  wagon  in  the  district  were  pressed  into 
service,  and  that  even  the  royal  works  of  St.  George’s 
Chapel,  Windsor,  were  abandoned  in  order  to  supply  car- 
penters and  masons  to  work  upon  it.  The  top  of  the  build- 
ing was  inclosed  in  immense  sweeps  of  plate  glass.  The  cen- 
tral tower  was  two  hundred  and  sixty-seven  feet  in  height. 
It  was,  indeed,  a palace  of  pleasure.  Its  decorations  seemed 
to  surpass  the  wildest  dreams  of  Oriental  splendor.  The 
building  was  pushed  forward  with  such  rapidity  that  the 
foundation  became  insecure,  and  during  a gust  of  wind  the 
main  tower  fell  to  the  earth. 

Mr.  Beckford  was  gifted  with  the  most  extraordinary 
vision.  He  gazed  upon  the  sun  with  the  eye  of  an  eagle. 
He  observed,  from  a distance  of  forty  miles,  while  on  an 
eminence  at  Bath,  that  his  tower  had  disappeared,  and  made 
known  the  fact  to  his  friends,  before  the  news  of  its  destruc- 
tion arrived  from  Fonthill. 

He  then  erected  another  palatial  tower,  which,  if  possi- 
ble, surpassed  the  former  in  beauty  and  magnificence.  Its 
furniture  beggared  description.  The  spacious  saloons  were 
crowded  with  the  rarest  treasures  of  art.  He  had  three  hun- 
dred and  sixty  different  sets  of  table-ware,  one  for  each  day 
during  the  year,  of  the  costliest  material. 

He  lived  in  this  fairy  dwelling  in  the  utmost  seclusion. 
It  was  seldom  that  any  one  ever  beheld  the  splendors  of  his 
home.  On  one  occasion  the  Duchess  of  Gordon  visited 
him.  She  was  entertained  for  a week  with  the  most  varied 
and  splendid  generosity,  but  the  owner  of  the  mansion  kept 
himself  savagely  inaccessible. 

At  one  time  he  had  a hideous  and  an  emasculated  Oriental 
9* 


102 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


dwarf  attached  to  his  person,  after  the  fashion  of  the  Asiatic 
princes.  This  eccentricity,  together  with  his  boundless 
wealth  and  secluded  life,  occasioned  the  ignorant  and 
superstitious  to  believe  that  he  was  leagued  with  the  devil, 
and  possessed  the  secrets  of  alchemy. 

“ Vathek”  was  first  published  in  1786.  It  was  followed, 
shortly  afterward,  by  an  English  translation,  now  included 
in  Bohn’s  Standard  Library.  A brief  outline  of  the  plot 
cannot  fail  to  be  of  interest  to  the  reader. 

Vathek  was  the  ninth  Caliph  of  the  race  of  the  Abassides. 
He  surpassed  in  magnificence  all  his  predecessors.  His 
dominions  extended  from  Africa  to  India.  His  personal 
appearance  was  the  very  embodiment  of  majesty  and  dig- 
nity, but,  when  angry,  one  of  his  eyes  became  so  terrible 
that  no  one  could  behold  it  and  live.  He  was  addicted  to 
every  pleasure  and  every  vice.  He  was  skilled  in  the  occult 
sciences.  He  consulted  the  stars,  and  penetrated  into  the 
profoundest  mysteries  of  the  soul.  His  palace  commanded 
the  whole  city  of  Samarah,  but  it  was  too  meagre  to  satisfy 
his  vanity,  and  he  erected  five  other  palaces,  designed  for 
the  gratification  of  each  of  the  senses.  The  first  was  called 
the  Eternal  or  the  Unsatiating  Banquet.  Here  the  most 
delicious  wines  and  cordials  flowed  from  a hundred  inex- 
haustible fountains.  The  second  palace  was  styled  the 
Temple  of  Melody,  or  the  Nectar  of  the  Soul.  It  was  fre- 
quented by  the  most  distinguished  poets  and  musicians  of 
the  land,  who  caused  even  “ the  surrounding  scenery  to 
reverberate  with  song.”  The  third  palace  was  termed  the 
Delight  of  the  Eyes  or  the  Support  of  Memory.  In  it  was 
collected  everything  that  could  possibly  tend  to  dazzle  and 
bewilder  the  senses.  “ Here  a well-managed  perspective 
attracted  the  sight,  there  the  magic  of  optics  agreeably  de- 
ceived it,  whilst  the  naturalist,  on  his  part,  exhibited  in  their 
several  classes  the  various  gifts  that  Heaven  had  bestowed 
on  our  globe.”  The  two  remaining  palaces  were  called  the 


VATHEK. 


103 


Palace  of  Perfumes  and  the  Retreat  of  Mirth.  The  latter 
was  ever  graced  with  “troops  of  young  females  as  beautiful 
as  the  Houris,  and  not  less  seducing.” 

Vathek’ s subjects,  notwithstanding  his  excesses,  wished 
for  him  a long  and  happy  reign.  His  pride  reached  its 
height,  and  wickedness  ran  riot  ip  him.  He  sullied  him- 
self with  a thousand  crimes.  The  Prophet  Mahomet  beheld 
his  conduct  with  indignation,  and  resolved  to  leave  him  to 
his  fate,  and  to  see  where  his  folly  and  impiety  would 
lead  him. 

Vathek  determined  to  construct  a tower,  not  in  imita- 
tion of  Nimrod,  but  for  the  purpose  of  penetrating  the 
secrets  of  heaven.  He  fancied  that  even  insensible  matter 
showed  a forwardness  to  subserve  his  designs,  for  when  a 
cubit  was  raised  in  a day,  two  cubits  would  be  added  at 
night. 

It  is  said  that  when  he  ascended,  for  the  first  time,  the 
fifteen  hundred  stairs  of  his  tower,  and  looked  down  upon 
men  no  larger  than  pismires,  and  mountains  than  shells,  and 
cities  than  bee-hives,  he  would  have  adored  himself,  had 
he  not  looked  upward,  and  saw  that  the  stars  were  as  far 
above  him  as  they  appeared  when  he  stood  on  the  surface 
of  the  earth.  He  soon  became  the  prey  of  a malignant 
giaour,  who  promised  him  the  diadem  of  Gian  Ben  Gian, 
the  talismans  of  Solomon,  and  the  treasures  of  the  pre- 
Adamite  kings. 

His  mother,  Carathis,  the  most  perfect  incarnation  of 
crime,  fired  his  ambition  to  this  end.  Under  the  guidance 
of  the  giaour,  he  started  to  seek  the  treasures.  “He  trod 
upon  the  cloth  of  gold  spread  for  his  feet,  and  ascended  his 
litter  amidst  the  general  acclamations  of  his  subjects.”  His 
expedition  was  interrupted  by  portentous  omens,  such  as 
darkness,  fire,  and  tempest,  and  became  lost  in  the  moun- 
tains. He  was  met  by  two  dwarfs,  who  conducted  him  to 
the  delightful  retreat  of  the  good  Emir  Fakreddin,  in  the 


104  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

midst  of  a valley  of  fruits,  melons,  and  flowers.  Here  he 
met  the  young  and  lovely  Nouronihar,  and  persuaded  her 
to  accompany  him  to  the  palace  of  fire,  and  to  share  with 
him  the  honor  and  glory  of  his  crown. 

At  last  they  beheld  the  darkened  summits  of  Istakar.  A 
beneficent  spirit,  in  the  form  of  a shepherd,  appeared,  and 
warned  them  that,  beyond  the  mountains,  Eblis  and  his 
accursed  Dives  held  their  infernal  fire.  The  spirit  informed 
Vathek  that  but  one  moment  of  grace  was  allowed  him  — 
that  when  the  sun  passed  from  behind  a cloud,  if  his  heart 
was  not  changed,  he  would  be  lost  forever. 

The  Caliph  scorned  the  advice,  and  exclaimed,  “Let  the 
sun  appear.  Let  him  illumine  my  career.  It  matters  not 
where  it  may  end.”  Nouronihar  importuned  him  to  hasten 
his  march,  and  lavished  on  him  a thousand  caresses  to  be- 
guile reflection. 

The  ruins  of  Istakar  were  soon  revealed  to  them.  “A 
deathlike  stillness  reigned  over  the  mountain  and  through 
the  air ; the  moon  dilated,  on  a vast  platform,  the  shades 
of  the  lofty  columns,  which  reached  from  the  terrace  almost 
to  the  clouds;  the  gloomy  watch-towers,  whose  number  could 
not  be  counted,  were  covered  by  no  roof;  and  their  capi- 
tals, of  an  architecture  unknown  in  the  records  of  the  earth, 
served  as  an  asylum  for  the  birds  of  night,  which,  alarmed 
at  the  approach  of  such  visitants,  fled  away,  croaking.” 

Vathek  and  Nouronihar,  undaunted,  proudly  entered  the 
gloomy  watch-towers.  Soon  they  beheld  each  other  with 
amazement,  at  finding  themselves  in  a place  which,  though 
roofed  with  a vaulted  ceiling,  was  so  spacious  and  lofty  that 
at  first  they  took  it  for  an  immeasurable  plain.  But  their 
eyes  at  length  growing  familiar  to  the  grandeur  of  the  sur- 
rounding objects,  they  extended  their  view  to  those  at  a 
distance,  and  discovered  rows  of  columns  and  arcades, 
which  gradually  diminished,  till  they  terminated  at  a point 
radiant  as  the  sun  when  he  darts  his  last  beams  athwart  the 


ocean. 


VATHEK. 


I05 


After  passing  through  a labyrinth  of  horrors,  interspersed 
with  flitting  visions  of  delight,  they  beheld  an  immense 
hall,  in  which  “a  vast  multitude  was  incessantly  passing, 
who  severally  kept  their  right  hands  on  their  hearts,  with- 
out once  regarding  any  one  around  them.  They  had  all  the 
livid  paleness  of  death.  Their  eyes,  deep  sunk  in  their 
sockets,  resembled  those  phosphoric  meteors  that  glimmer 
by  night  in  places  of  interment.  Some  stalked  slowly  on, 
absorbed  in  profound  revery ; some,  shrieking  with  agony, 
ran  furiously  about  like  tigers  wounded  with  poisoned 
arrows ; whilst  others,  grinding  their  teeth  in  rage,  foamed 
along,  more  frantic  than  the  wildest  maniac.  They  all 
avoided  each  other,  and,  though  surrounded  by  a multitude 
which  no  one  could  number,  each  wandered  at  random, 
unheedful  of  the  rest,  as  if  alone  on  a desert  where  no  foot 
had  trodden/ * 

Yathek  and  Nouronihar,  though  frozen  with  terror  at  this 
sight,  moved  on,  until  they  reached  the  throne  of  Soliman. 
As  the  mighty  potentate  raised  his  hand  to  heaven,  in  token 
of  supplication,  they  discerned  through  his  bosom,  which 
was  transparent  as  crystal,  his  heart  enveloped  in  flames. 

Vathek  and  his  companions  were  informed  that  a like 
fate  awaited  them,  and  “ their  hearts  immediately  took  fire, 
and  they  at  once  lost  the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven  — 
hope.” 

This  scene  belongs  to  the  highest  order  of  intellectual 
poetry.  There  is  nothing  in  Dante  or  Milton  that  surpasses 
it  in  grandeur,  power,  and  sublimity. 

Mr.  Beckford  lived  to  the  advanced  age  of  eighty-four. 
His  intellect  remained  unclouded  to  the  last.  His  fame  as 
an  author,  however,  rests  principally  upon  his  earlier  pro- 
ductions. His  letters,  in  which  he  gives  an  account  of  his 
travels,  were  not  published  until  fifty  years  after  they  were 
written.  He  employed  the  last  years  of  his  life  in  collect- 
ing treasures  for  his  residence  at  Bath,  where  he  united  two 


io6 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


houses  in  Lansdown  Crescent,  by  an  arch  thrown  from  one 
street  to  another,  in  which  he  placed  his  library,  which  was 
one  of  the  best  selected  and  most  extensive  in  England. 

The  last  residence  of  Mr.  Beckford  was  not  less  beautiful 
and  magnificent  than  that  of  Fonthill.  He  built  a tower  on 
an  eminence  eight  hundred  feet  above  Bath.  In  one  of 
the  rooms  was  a chapel  of  marvellous  beauty,  covered 
with  ground  glass,  through  which  the  light  streamed  in 
dimmed  rays,  as  in  the  cathedrals  and  temples  of  old. 
Here  could  be  seen  a beautiful  statue  of  St.  Anthony,  with 
the  infant  Saviour,  and  many  of  the  treasures  and  articles 
of  vertu  that  formerly  graced  the  residence  at  Fonthill. 
Beckford  sought  this  tower  a great  deal.  He  passed 
several  hours  in  it  every  day  in  the  strictest  seclusion.  He 
gave  the  following  reason  for  his  love  of  solitude : 

“Abroad  or  at  home,  I always  give  some  time  to  soli- 
tude. In  my  early  youth  I disliked  large  companies.  I 
enjoy  nature  most  alone.  At  twenty-six,  under  a bitter 
domestic  calamity,  solitude  soothed  me,  and  I have  loved 
it  more  ever  since.’ ’ 

His  residence  at  Bath  was  surrounded  with  barren  wastes, 
which  he  converted  into  gardens,  in  which  grew  the  rarest 
trees  and  flowers,  gathered  from  all  parts  of  the  world. 
He  crowned  the  hill  on  which  his  tower  was  built,  as  if  by 
magic,  with  trees  twelve  feet  high. 

His  remains  are  buried  at  Lansdown,  in  a mausoleum, 
upon  which  are  inscribed  the  date  of  his  death,  2d  of  May, 
1844,  and  the  following  lines  from  a prayer  which  he  com- 
posed : 

“ Eternal  Power, 

Grant  me  through  obvious  clouds  one  transient  gleam 
Of  Thy  bright  essence  in  my  dying  hour.” 

And  a quotation  from  Yathek: 

“Enjoying  humbly  the  most  precious  gift  of  Heaven  to 
man  — Hope.” 


io7 


' 


MARMONTEL. 

MARMONTEL’S  B disarms  was  written  in  1777.  As 
a literary  production,  it  ranks  far  below  Les  Contes 
Moraux  and  Les  Incas . The  author  claims  to  have  relied 
wholly  upon  the  faith  of  history  for  the  material  of  his  work. 
He  quotes  extensively  in  the  introductory  chapter  from  the 
writings  of  Procopius,  and  cites,  we  think,  some  very  excel- 
lent reasons  for  not  attributing  to  that  historian  a work 
entitled  ‘ ‘ Anecdotes,  or  Secret  History. 7 ’ Gibbon,  Lebeau, 
and  Guizot  regard  the  work  as  genuine,  though  it  is  said 
that  it  does  not  conform  with  the  author’s  style  and  diction, 
and  that  it  was  not  even  attributed  to  him  until  500  years 
after  his  death.  Agathias,  and  other  contemporary  histo- 
rians, enumerate  his  works  without  mentioning  it.  It  is 
full  of  the  most  disgusting  accounts  of  court  intrigues  and 
scandals.  It  contains  a number  of  stories  about  Belisarius’s 
domestic  relations  almost  as  ridiculous  and  improbable  as 
Harriet  Beecher  Stowe’s  revelations  of  Lord  Byron. 

It  is  a matter  of  regret  that  so  little  is  known  in  regard 
to  the  last  days  of  Belisarius.  Gibbon,  in  the  Decline  and 
Fall  of  the  Roman  Empire , devotes  considerable  space  to 
the  military  achievements  of  this  great  warrior;  but,  for 
some  unaccountable  reason,  passes  hurriedly  over  many 
important  events  which  took  place  toward  the  close  of  his 
life.  Had  Gibbon  examined  these  events  with  his  accus- 
tomed care  and  fidelity,  much  light,  doubtless,  would  have 
10  109 


no 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


been  thrown  upon  this  interesting  period  of  Roman  history. 
Lord  Mahon  attempted  to  repair  the  deficiency,  but  his 
genius  and  scholarship  were  inadequate  to  the  task,  although 
he  devoted  much  energy  and  research  to  it.  He  examined 
minutely  the  writings  of  Crinitus,  Volaterranus,  Pontanus, 
Marcellinus,  and  Ignatius,  to  say  nothing  of  those  of  Pro- 
copius, Thucydides,  Agathias,  and  Livy.  He  also  brought 
forward  information  from  a work  hitherto  unpublished,  the 
four  books  descriptive  of  the  city  of  Constantinople,  in- 
serted in  Banduras  Imperium  Orientate,  for  the  purpose  of 
settling  the  vexed  question  of  Belisarius’s  blindness  and 
mendicity.  Milman,  however,  in  his  notes  on  Gibbon, 
refuses  to  credit  the  testimony,  and  says  that  all  accounts 
of  Belisarius’s  blindness  are  fabled,  and  entitled  to  no 
earthly  consideration. 

Belisarius  was  born  on  the  confines  of  Thrace  and 
Illyria,  about  500  years  after  Christ.  In  early  youth  he  was 
distinguished  as  a warrior,  and,  when  only  twenty-five  years 
of  age,  he  was  named  governor  of  Dara.  A few  years  later, 
he  was  chosen  general  of  the  Roman  forces  in  the  East.  In 
531,  he  won  the  famous  battle  of  Callinicum.  In  533,  he 
undertook  an  expedition  into  Africa.  It  was  crowned  with 
the  most  brilliant  success.  He  besieged  the  heroic  Gelimer 
on  the  mountain  of  Papua.  The  Vandal  chief  made  a deter- 
mined resistance.  He  was  reduced  to  sufferings  and  hard- 
ships of  indescribable  horror.  His  army  was  compelled  to 
subsist,  in  the  midst  of  winter,  on  the  coarsest  oaten  cakes 
baked  in  ashes.  The  half-starved  soldiers  were  even  ready 
to  devour  their  women  and  children.  In  the  midst  of  this 
terrible  distress,  the  Vandal  monarch  displayed  the  loftiest 
courage  and  fortitude.  He  had  been  accustomed  to  the 
most  luxurious  pleasures,  and  the  recollection  of  them,  as 
may  readily  be  imagined,  only  served  to  heighten  his  suf- 
ferings. In  a letter  to  Pharas,  the  besieging  commander, 
imploring  mercy,  he  exclaims,  “ I have  been  suddenly  cast 


MARMONTEL. 


Ill 


from  the  throne  into  the  abyss  of  misery.  Justinian  is  a 
man  and  an  emperor : does  he  not  fear  for  himself  a similar 
reverse  of  fortune?  Send  me,  I pray  you,  to  solace  my 
sorrows,  a lyre,  a sponge,  and  a loaf  of  bread.”  The  re- 
quest was. granted,  but  the  besieging  army  only  redoubled 
its  vigilance,  and  the  unfortunate  king  was  compelled  to 
capitulate.  He  was  led  in  triumph  to  Constantinople,  in 
company  with  his  wife  and  children,  and  a long  train  of 
Vandal  nobles.  The  capital  had  never  witnessed  before 
such  a magnificent  procession.  As  the  triumphal  car  moved 
from  the  palace  of  Belisarius  toward  the  gates  of  the  Hip- 
podrome, the  enthusiasm  of  the  populace  exceeded  all 
bounds.  It  seemed  as  if  all  the  wealth  of  the  African  con- 
tinent was  displayed.  Jewelled  thrones,  glittering  armor, 
costly  vases  and  statues,  and  the  magnificent  chariots  which 
had  been  used  by  the  Vandal  kings,  composed  part  of  the 
conqueror’s  procession.  Gelimer,  with  dejected  counte- 
nance, advanced  slowly  on  foot,  clothed  in  a robe  of  purple 
and  gold.  He  maintained  the  utmost  dignity  of  demeanor. 
Not  a tear  glistened  in  his  eye,  nor  a single  sigh  was  heaved 
from  his  manly  breast.  He  is  said  to  have  derived  a 
melancholy  pleasure  in  repeating  the  words  of  Solomon, 
“Vanity  of  vanities,  all  is  vanity.” 

Belisarius  nobly  refused  to  ride  in  the  triumphal  car, 
but  walked  modestly  by  the  side  of  his  brave  comrades. 
As  the  procession  approached  the  throne,  on  which  were 
seated  the  emperor  and  empress,  the  victorious  general 
and  captive  hero  were  compelled  to  prostrate  themselves  on 
the  ground  and  kiss  the  royal  footstool. 

Belisarius  was  now  made  the  first  consul  of  the  Em- 
pire ; but  Justinian  soon  became  jealous  of  him,  and  waited 
only  for  a pretext  to  accomplish  his  ruin.  In  542,  he 
sequestered  his  estates,  and  degraded  him  from  the  rank  of 
a general. 

His  crime  seems  to  have  been,  simply,  the  expression  of 


I 1 2 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


an  opinion  that  the  emperor’s  nearest  kinsman  should  suc- 
ceed to  the  throne  instead  of  Theodora. 

As  Belisarius  entered  the  city  of  Constantinople,  with 
his  small  and  squalid  retinue,  the  ungrateful  people  re- 
ceived him  with  insults  and  scoffings.  He  was  made  a 
prisoner  in  his  own  palace,  and  expected  every  moment 
either  to  fall  by  the  hands  of  an  assassin  or  to  receive  from 
the  emperor  a sentence  of  death.  At  this  time,  the  Empire 
was  threatened  with  invasion,  and  Belisarius  was  rein- 
stated in  his  command. 

His  victories  were  more  brilliant  than  ever;  but  they  ex- 
cited the  bitterest  jealousy  at  the  imperial  court,  and  he 
was  again  recalled  and  disgraced.  His  last  victory  was  won 
at  Chettos,  in  559,  against  the  Bulgarians.  In  563,  he  was 
accused  of  being  engaged  in  a conspiracy,  with  Marcellus 
Sergius  and  others,  to  murder  the  emperor.  Justinian  was 
weak  enough  to  believe  the  accusation,  and  ordered  him 
under  arrest. 

Here  Gibbon  and  other  historians  leave  us  in  doubt  as  to 
the  real  facts  of  Belisarius’ s fate.  It  is  said  that  the  em- 
peror, on  account  of  Belisarius’s  past  services,  spared  his 
life;  but,  in  accordance  with  an  existing  custom  at  the 
Byzantine  court,  decreed  that  his  eyes  should  be  put  out, 
and  deprived  him  of  all  means  of  support  by  confiscating 
his  property.  There  is  a tradition  that  he  was  reduced  to  beg 
his  bread  from  door  to  door,  and  that  he  held  forth  a platter 
of  wood  or  earthenware  for  charity,  with  the  plea,  “Give 
a penny  to  the  old  soldier  — to  poor  and  blind  Belisarius.” 

One  of  the  most  singular  things  in  Marmontel’s  romance, 
is  the  view  he  has  taken  of  Justinian.  He  says  that  the 
emperor  was  a wise  and  virtuous  man,  and  raised  himself 
by  his  valor  from  the  lowest  station  in  the  army  to  the  im- 
perial throne.  He  also  represents  him  as  having  done  every- 
thing in  his  power  to  atone  for  the  ruin  he  inflicted  upon 
Belisarius  in  decreeing  his  eyes  to  be  put  out. 


MARMONTEL. 


113 

This  position  is  entirely  inconsistent  with  the  character 
of  one  who,  according  to  Gibbon,  and  other  historians, 
was  an  upstart  monarch,  who  scarcely  ever  unsheathed  his 
sword,  and  who  shared  his  crown  with  a public  prostitute, 
the  vilest  of  her  sex. 

Marmonters  romance  contains  some  very  fine  passages; 
but,  upon  the  whole,  it  is  dull  and  tedious.  The  author 
represents  Belisarius  as  conversing  most  eloquently  upon 
such  subjects  as  moral  and  ethical  philosophy,  the  science 
of  government,  and  the  art  of  war;  but  many  of  the  speci- 
mens he  gives  are  full  of  weak  and  wishy-washy  sentiments. 

We  have  endeavored  to  translate,  as  literally  as  possible, 
what  we  regard  as  the  finest  chapter  in  the  book. 

Belisarius  directed  his  steps  toward  an  old  castle  in 
ruins,  where  his  family  expected  him.  He  was  compelled 
to  beg  alms  as  he  went.  His  dignified  bearing,  and  lofty 
expression  of  countenance,  could  not  do  otherwise  than 
attract  the  attention  of  the  beholder ; but  he  warned  his 
guide  not  to  reveal  his  name  upon  the  route.  In  passing 
through  a village,  he  stopped  in  the  evening  at  the  door  of 
a neat  but  plain-looking  house.  The  owner  of  the  dwell- 
ing was  just  returning  home,  with  a spade  in  his  hand.  He 
was  struck  with  the  noble  appearance  of  Belisarius,  and 
asked  him  who  he  was.  The  latter  replied,  “I  am  a poor 
old  soldier.”  “A  soldier!”  exclaimed  the  villager ; “and 
is  this  your  reward?”  “It  is  the  misfortune  of  a sov- 
ereign,” said  Belisarius,  “not  to  be  able  to  reward  all 
those  who  have  fought  in  his  service.” 

This  reply  touched  the  heart  of  the  villager,  and  he 
begged  him  to  accept  his  hospitality.  “I  introduce  to 
you,”  said  the  master  of  the  house  to  his  wife,  “a  brave 
soldier,  who  supports  courageously  the  severest  trials  of 
affliction.”  He  then  addressed  Belisarius,  saying,  “Be 
not  ashamed  of  your  condition,  for  we,  too,  have  expe- 
10  * 


I 14  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

rienced  misfortune.  I pray  you  be  seated,  while  supper  is 
being  prepared,  and  tell  me  in  what  wars  you  have  served. ” 

“In  the  wars  of  Italy,”  said  Belisarius,  “against  the 
Goths,  and  in  those  of  Asia,  against  the  Persians,  and  in 
those  of  Africa,  against  the  Vandals  and  the  Moors.” 

At  these  last  words  the  villager  was  not  able  to  suppress 
a deep  sigh.  He  said,  “You  have,  then,  made  all  the  cam- 
paigns with  Belisarius,  who  exhibited  ever  the  utmost 
purity  of  heart  and  grandeur  of  intellect.  In  my  retirement 
I have  not  heard  from  him  for  a quarter  of  a century.  I 
hope  he  is  still  living,  and  that  Heaven  will  bless  and  pro- 
long his  days.” 

Belisarius  answered,  “Pie  is  still  living;  but  if  he  could 
hear  you  he  would  be  deeply  moved  at  your  kind  wishes.” 
“Then,”  said  the  villager,  “how  is  he  at  court?  All-pow- 
erful, adored  by  every  one?”  “Alas!  ” replied  his  guest, 
“do  you  not  know  that  envy  ever  attaches  itself  to  great- 
ness?” “Very  true;  but  the  emperor  should  be  upon  his 
guard  in  listening  to  the  enemies  of  so  great  a man.  He 
was  the  tutelar  genius  and  the  protector  of  the  Empire. 
He  is  very  old ; but  no  matter,  he  would  still  be  as  great  in 
the  council  as  he  was  in  the  field.” 

Belisarius  was  now  convinced  that  his  host  was  some 
officer  whom  he  had  rewarded  while  in  the  army.  T)uring 
supper  the  latter  was  inquisitive  about  the  wars  in  Italy  and 
in  the  East,  but  did  not  refer  to  those  of  Africa.  “Let  us 
drink,”  said  the  host,  at  the  conclusion  of  the  repast,  “to 
the  health  of  your  general.  May  Heaven  not  be  unkind 
to  him  for  the  evil  he  inflicted  upon  me.”  “How  did  he 
ever  injure  you? ” said  Belisarius.  “He  discharged  his 
duty ; I do  not  complain ; I have  learned  how  to  bear  up 
under  adversity.  Since  you  have  served  in  the  African 
wars,  you  have  doubtless  seen  the  King  of  the  Vandals,  the 
unfortunate  Gelimer,  with  his  captive  wife  and  children, 
led  in  triumph  by  Belisarius  to  Constantinople.  I must 


MARMONTEL.  I I 5 

tell  you  that  I am  Gelimer,  the  unfortunate  King  of  the 
Vandals.” 

“Are  you,  then,  indeed,  Gelimer?”  said  Belisarius. 
“Is  it  possible  that  the  emperor  has  made  your  lot  so 
humble?  ” 

“The  emperor  offered  me  honors,  and  I refused  them. 
When  one  has  been  a king,  and  ceases  to  be  a king,  he  has 
no  recompense  save  in  repose  and  obscurity.  Yes,  I was 
besieged  upon  the  mountain  of  Papua.  There  I suffered 
hardships  unheard  of.  In  the  midst  of  the  severest  winter 
I felt  the  pangs  of  hunger,  and  beheld  the  awful  spectacle 
of  a nation  driven  to  despair,  and  ready  to  devour  their 
women  and  children.  The  vigilance  of  the  brave  Pharas 
was  unremitting,  but  he  did  everything  to  direct  my  atten- 
tion to  the  miserable  condition  of  my  people.  This,  together 
with  the  confidence  I had  in  the  integrity  of  your  general, 
led  me  to  lay  down  my  arms. 

“Belisarius  received  me  with  the  greatest  dignity. 
Every  attention  was  paid  to  me.  He  did  everything  he 
could  to  console  me  in  my  affliction.  I have  passed  six 
lustres  in  retirement,  but  each  and  every  day  I have  offered 
up  a fervent  prayer  for  Belisarius.  Before  the  surrender 
I-  had  lived  the  most  voluptuous  of  kings.  I was  nursed  as 
it  were  in  the  lap  of  pleasure.  Suddenly  I passed  from  my 
palace  to  the  caverns  of  the  Moors,  slept  upon  straw,  and 
lived  upon  barley  coarsely  pounded  and  half  washed  upon 
cinders.  Nay,  to  such  hardships  was  I reduced  that  a loaf 
of  bread  sent  to  me  by  the  enemy  was  a present  inestimable. 
I was  loaded  with  chains,  and  compelled  to  walk  in  the 
conqueror’s  triumph.  After  undergoing  such  affliction  the 
heart  must  either  break  with  grief  or  rise  superior  to  it.” 

Belisarius  replied,  “You  have  in  the  composure  of  your 
soul  many  resources  against  calamity,  and  I promise  before 
we  part  to  give  you  a further  consolation.” 

Early  the  next  morning  Gelimer  found  his  guest  with 


Il6  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

stick  in  hand  ready  to  set  out  upon  his  journey.  He  begged 
him  to  pass  a few  days  longer  with  him.  Belisarius  re- 
plied, “I  have  a wife  and  daughter  inconsolable  during 
my  absence.  Farewell  ! but  hear  unmoved  what  I have  to 
reveal : Belisarius,  though  old  and  blind,  will  never  forget 
the  reception  you  have  given  him.” 

“ Merciful  Heaven  ! ” exclaimed  Gelimer  ; “ Belisarius 
blind,  and  in  his  old  age  abandoned?  ” 

“ Yes;  my  enemies,  before  they  reduced  me  to  poverty, 
put  out  my  eyes. 9 1 

“ Oh,  just  Heaven  ! who  were  the  monsters?  ” 

“The  envious ,”  said  Belisarius.  “ They  accused  me 
of  aspiring  to  the  throne,  when  I thought  only  of  the  grave. 
They  had  the  power  to  ruin  me.  I was  placed  in  irons, 
but  the  people  clamored  for  my  deliverance.  It  was  im- 
possible to  resist  them  ; but,  in  restoring  me  to  liberty,  I 
was  deprived  of  my  sight;  and  Justinian  ordered  it.  It 
was  that  that  most  pained  me.  You  know  with  what  zeal, 
with  what  love,  and  with  what  fidelity  I served  him.  Even 
now  I feel  no  anger  toward  him,  and  I deeply  regret  that 
he  is  surrounded  by  wicked  men  to  darken  the  evening  of 
his  days.  When  I heard  that  he  had  pronounced  the  fatal 
sentence,  I must  confess  that  my  constancy  failed  me.  My 
executioner  melted  into  pity,  and  fell  prostrate  at  my  feet. 
Thanks  be  to  Heaven  ! it  is  over  now,  and  I have  but  a 
little  while  to  be  blind  and  poor.” 

Gelimer  now  asked  Belisarius  to  pass  the  remainder  of 
his  life  with  him. 

Belisarius  replied  : “It  would  indeed  be  consoling,  but 
I owe  a duty  to  my  wife  and  children,  and  I go  to  die  in 
their  arms.” 

Gelimer  embraced  him  with  tears,  and  at  last  parted 
from  him  with  the  utmost  difficulty ; but  watched  him  with 
longingeyes,  and  exclaimed,  “ O prosperity ! O prosperity ! 
who  can  confide  in  thee  ? 99 


VICTOR  HUGO, 


WITH  A GLANCE  AT  HIS  WORKS. 

ICTOR  HUGO  has  been  successful  in  every  depart- 


ment of  literature.  He  has  made  a brilliant  reputa- 
tion, not  only  as  an  essayist  and  novelist,  but  as  a poet  and 
dramatist.  His  “Claude  Gueux,”  “Studies  upon  Mira- 
beau,”  and  “Litterature  et  Philosophic  Melees,”  aided  in 
securing  his  election  to  the  French  Academy.  His  “Ma- 
rion de  Lorme”  and  “Lucr&ce  Borgia,”  in  spite  of  their 
faults  and  inconsistencies,  and  questionable  morality,  occupy 
a prominent  place  upon  the  stage.  His  political  speeches 
and  orations  are  read  and  studied  in  every  civilized  coun- 
try upon  the  globe.  He  has  written  any  number  of  odes 
and  ballads,  and  lyrical  and  legendary  poems. 

He  claims  to  belong  to  one  of  the  noblest  families  of 
France.  He  traces  his  noble  descent  as  far  back  as  the 
year  1531.  His  residence,  “Hauteville  House,”  in  the 
island  of  Guernsey,  is  famed  for  its  costly  magnificence 
and  sumptuous  splendor.  There  is  not  a room  in  it  that  is 
not  ornamented  with  some  exquisite  carvings  and  rare 
curiosities.  Every  department  is  arranged  entirely  after 
his  own  taste  and  designs.  He  has  spent  a large  portion 
of  his  life  in  collecting  the  rarest  works  of  art,  including 
oak  carvings  of  the  middle  ages  and  Renaissance,  ancient 
tapestries,  statues,  vases,  porcelains,  and  enamels.  He  is 
said  to  have  covered  his  walls  and  furniture  with  inscrip- 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


1 1 8 

tions  and  devices  illustrative  of  the  most  eventful  passages 
in  his  life,  and  of  his  peculiar  ideas  of  moral  and  ethical 
philosophy. 

His  chimney-piece  is  thus  described  by  Lecanu : 

Let  us  imagine  a cathedral  of  carved  wood,  which,  firmly  rooted  in 
the  flooring,  rises  in  a towering  mass  to  the  ceiling,  indenting  the  tapes- 
try above  with  its  highest  pinnacles.  The  doorway  is  represented  by 
the  hearth,  and  the  rose  window  by  a convex  mirror  placed  above  the 
fireplace.  The  central  gable  rises  in  a double  entablature,  decorated 
with  arcades  and  fantastic  foliage  in  a deliciously  bastard  style,  in 
which  the  rococo  blends  with  Byzantine  architecture.  Surmounted  on 
this  are  two  towers,  supported  by  buttresses,  which  most  happily  repeat 
the  ornamentation  of  the  main  body.  This  crowning  piece  reminds 
one  of  the  facades  of  the  guild-halls  in  Antwerp  and  Bruges.  Here, 
also,  as  in  the  roofs  of  these  old  remains  of  the  time  of  Philip  II.,  some 
plain  figures  stand  out  in  rigid  simplicity,  and  give  life  to  the  bold  in- 
dental lines  of  the  architecture.  One  figure  is  that  of  a bishop,  with  a 
gilt  crozier;  and  on  two  adjacent  escutcheons  is  the  proverb: 

CROSSE  DE  BOIS,  EVEQUE  D’OR. 

CROSSE  D’OR,  EVEQUE  DE  BOIS. 

Below  are  two  carved  figures,  representing,  one,  St.  Paul,  with 

LE  LIVRE 

underneath ; the  other  a monk,  and  the  words 
LE  CIEL. 

On  two  plain  volutes  are  inscribed  the  names  of  the  greatest  benefac- 
tors of  humanity,  in  chronological  order : 

MOISE,  SOCRETE,  CHRIST,  COLOMB,  LUTHER,  DANTE,  SHAKSPEARE, 
MOLIERE. 

In  this  palatial  residence  he  indites  his  literary  works  for 
the  edification  and  corruption  of  mankind.  It  is  here  that 
he  stigmatized  the  execution  of  John  Brown  as  “ worse 
than  the  murder  of  Abel  by  Cain,”  and  said,  l{  C’est  Wash- 
ington tuant  Spartacus.”  It  is  here  that  he  wrote  “The 


VICTOR  HUGO.  I 19 

Man  who  Laughs,’ ’ one  of  the  most  singular  and  meretri- 
cious of  all  his  works. 

This  book  is  terribly  open  to  criticism,  but  On  that  account 
it  is  only  the  more  read  and  praised. 

We  do  not  see  how  it  can  be  regarded  in  any  other  light 
than  an  attack  upon  society,  upon  virtue  and  religion.  It 
depicts  glowingly  almost  every  species  of  villany.  It  is 
full  of  hate,  revenge,  cruelty,  murder,  intrigue,  scandal, 
animal  passion,  and  illicit  love.  There  is  scarcely  a touch 
of  refinement  and  purity  in  it. . All  the  characters,  with  the 
exception  of  Dea,  are  intensely  coarse  and  vulgar. 

The  author  has  grouped  together  some  of  the  most  mis- 
erable and  contemptible  gossip  of  history.  He  stops  in 
the  midst  of  a description  of  his  heroine,  Josiane,  a singu- 
lar compound  of  beauty,  lasciviousness,  and  bestial  pas- 
sion, to  tell  us  that  “Elizabeth  is  a type  that  has  ruled'  in 
England  for  three  centuries.  . . . She  struck  with  her 
fist  her  maids  of  honor,  sent  Dudley  to  the  devil,  beat 
Chancellor  Burleigh,  who  whimpered  (the  old  fool),  spit 
upon  Matthew,  throttled  Hatton,  boxed  Essex  on  the  ears, 
showed  her  thigh  to  Bassompierre.  What  she  did  for 
Bossompierre  the  Queen  of  Sheba  had  done  for  Solomon. 
Wherefore  it  was  correct,  holy  Scriptures  having  established 
the  precedent.” 

He  then  goes  on  to  say  that  Mary  Stuart  had  her  weak- 
ness for  a Rizzio ; Maria  Theresa  had  a little  familiarity 
with  a negro : whence  the  Black  Abbess.  He  then  in- 
dulges in  the  following  amusing  contradictions  about 
Josiane:  “Never  a passion  had  approached  her,  and  she 
had  gone  to  the  bottom  of  them  all.  She  had  a distaste 
for  realization  and  a liking  for  them  at  the  same  time.” 
“It  is  tiresome  to  be  forced  to  marry  Lord  David  when 
there  is  nothing  that  I should  like  better  than  to  love  him.” 

“ Josiane,  c’etait  la  chair.  Rien  de  plus  magnifique.  Elle  <£tait 


120 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


trbs-grande,  trop  grande.  Ses  cheveux  etaient  de  cette  nuance  qu’on 
pourrait  nommer  le  blond  pourpre.  Elle  etait  grasse,  fraiche,  robuste, 
vermeille,  avec  enormement  d’audace  et  d’esprit.  Elle  avait  les  yeux 
trop  intelligibles.  D’amant,  point;  de  cliastete,  pas  d’avantage.  Elle 
se  murait  dans  l’orgeuil.  Les  hommes,  fi  done ! un  dieu  tout  au  plus 
£tait  digne  d’elle,  ou  un  monstre.  Si  la  vertu  consiste  dans  l’escarpe- 
ment,  Josiane  etait  toute  la  vertu  possible,  sans  aucune  innocence. 
Elle  n’avait  pas  d’aventufes,  par  dddain;  mais  on  ne  Petit  point  fache'e 
de  lui  en  supposer,  pourvu  qu’elles  fussent  etranges  et  proportionnees  a 
une  personne  faite  comme  elle.  Elle  tenait  peu  k sa  reputation  et 
beaucoup  k sa  gloire.  Sembler  facile  et  etre  impossible,  voila  le  chef- 
d’oeuvre.  Josiane  se  sentait  majesty  et  matibre.  C’dtait  une  beaute 
encombrante.  Elle  empidtait  plus  qu’elle  ne  charmait.  Elle  marchait 
sur  les  coeurs.  Elle  dtait  terrestre.  On  l’eut  aussi  etonn£e  de  lui 
montrer  une  ame  dans  sa  poitrine  que  de  lui  faire  voir  des  ailes  sur  son 
dos.  Elle  dissertait  sur  Locke.  Elle  avait  de  la  politesse.  On  la 
soupgonnait  de  savoir  l’arabe.” 

In  one  sentence  the  author  tells  us  that  she  made  much  of 
Lord  David’s  mistresses,  and  in  the  next  that  she  is  without 
spot  or  blemish.  We  can  but  believe  that  the  most  enthu- 
siastic admirer  of  French  literature  will  be  completely 
disgusted  with  this  intolerable  nonsense.  Even  if  such 
inconsistencies  really  exist  in  the  human  character,  what 
possible  good  can  come  from  the  portrayal  of  them  with 
such  apparent  relish  and  abandon  ? 

The  author’s  conception  of  his  hero,  Gwynplaine,  is 
grotesque  in  the  extreme.  Gwynplaine  was  the  son  of  a 
nobleman.  The  king  wished  to  deprive  him  of  his  in- 
heritance, and  ordered  him  to  be  sold  when  two  years  of 
age,  and  employed  a physician  of  Flanders  to  mutilate  his 
features  by  performing  an  operation  called  “ bucca  fissa 
usque  ad  aures,”  which  stamps  an  eternal  laugh  upon  the  face. 

The  whimsical  exaggeration  of  this  character  is  almost 
unendurable,  but,  however,  some  of  the  scenes  in  which  he 
is  an  actor  are  strikingly  portrayed;  for  instance,  the  ter- 
rible scene  in  the  House  of  Lords,  where  he  is  made  to 
endure  the  scorn  of  his  brother  peers. 


VICTOR  HUGO. 


1 2 I 


We  give  the  following  description  of  a storm  at  sea  as  a 
specimen  of  the  author’s  wild  extravagance,  and  quaint  and 
ridiculous  illustrations : 

“ Where  the  ocean  was  free  from  foam  it  had  a sticky  appearance. 
The  waves,  losing  their  sharp  edges  in  the  twilight,  looked  like  pud- 
dles of  gall.  Here  and  there  a flattened  billow  showed  cracks  and 
stars  like  a window  at  which  stones  had  been  thrown.  At  the  centre 
of  these  stars,  in  eddying  apertures,  trembled  a phosphorescence 
which  recalled  the  cat-like  after-gleam  of  departed  life  in  a screech- 
owl’s  eyes.” 

The  denoument  of  this  novel  is  fully  in  keeping  with 
the  style  in  which  it  is  written.  Josiane  is  never  heard  of 
after  the  memorable  interview  with  Gwynplaine,  in  which 
she  threw  herself  with  the  bound  of  a panther  upon  his 
neck,  and  told  him  in  words  which  came  out  “pell-mell, 
like  an  eruption,”  that  “she  idolized  him  because  she  dis- 
dained him,”  that  “she  loved  him  because  he  was  gro- 
tesque, hideous,”  and  “that  he  was  exquisite  because  he 
was  infamous.” 

Dea  dies  from  excess  of  joy  at  the  return  of  her  lover, 
and  Gwynplaine  puts  an  end  to  his  miserable  existence  by 
drowning  himself. 

The  absurdity  of  this  novel  we  think  destroys  the  very 
interest  it  was  intended  to  create.  The  author  speaks  of 
writing  two  other  books  of  the  same  character,  to  be  entitled 
“Monarchy”  and  “Ninety-three.”  We  hope,  however, 
that  he  will  abandon  the  idea.  His  genius  is  fitted  for  some- 
thing better. 


ii 


SHAKESPEARIAN  STUDIES. 


12 


THE  TEMPEST. 

SHAKSPEARE  was  indebted  solely  to  the  inspiration 
of  his  genius  for  the  material  of  this  exquisite  creation. 
His  critics  and  commentators  have  wholly  failed  to  trace 
the  origin  of  the  plot  to  any  other  source.  The  poet  Col- 
lins, however,  claimed  that  it  was  founded  upon  a romance 
entitled  “Amelia  and  Isabella/’  printed  in  the  Italian, 
Spanish,  French,  and  English,  in  1588.  There  is  nothing, 
however,  in  “Amelia  and  Isabella,”  not  even  the  faintest 
outline,  to  warrant  such  a conclusion.  Warton,  in  com- 
menting upon  the  above,  says  that  Collins  had  searched  the 
subject  with  no  less  fidelity  than  judgment  and  industry ; 
but  during  a moment  of  mental  aberration,  probably  gave 
the  name  of  one  novel  for  another.  Warton  also  expresses 
the  opinion  that  the  original  novel  will  yet  be  discovered, 
inasmuch  as  Collins  mentions  that  the  principal  character 
of  the  romance  answering  to  Shakspeare’s  Prospero  was  a 
chemical  necromancer,  who  had  bound  a spirit  like  Ariel 
to  obey  his  call  and  perform  his  services. 

Tieck  earnestly  maintains  that  the  Tempest  was  taken 
from  an  Italian  drama,  of  which  a German  version  is  pre- 
served in  Ayer’s  play  entitled  Die  Sch'dne  Sidea  (The  Beauti- 
ful Sidea).  His  arguments  are  based  principally  upon  some 
striking  points  of  resemblance  between  the  two  plays ; but 
as  the  earlier  drama  is  not  known  to  exist,  it  is  probable 
11*  125 


126 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


that  the  Beautiful  Sidea  is  only  an  adaptation  or  imitation 
of  the  Tempest. 

Shakspeare’s. reference  to  “the  still  vex’d  Bermoothes” 
has  given  rise  to  the  opinion  that  the  scene  of  the  drama  is 
laid  in  the  Bermudas. 

Sir  George  Somers,  who  was  wrecked  upon  one  of  these 
isles,  published  an  account  of  his  voyage  about  three  years 
before  the  play  was  written,  in  which  he  gave  a glowing 
description  of  this  land  of  enchantment,  of  groves  of  coral, 
of  perpetual  blossoms  and  ever- verdant  bowers.  The  poet 
doubtless  had  read  the  account  of  this  voyage,  and  had 
the  Bermudas  in  his  mind’s  eye;  but  Ariel’s  flight  from  “a 
nook  of  the  isle”  to  “fetch  dew”  from  “the  still  vex’d 
Bermoothes”  is,  we  think,  a convincing  proof  that  the  isles 
were  some  distance  from  the  scene  of  the  drama. 

The  Tempest  has  often  been  compared  to  the  “Mid- 
summer-Night’s Dream.”  The  contrast  between  the  real 
and  the  ideal,  the  natural  and  the  supernatural,  in  both  of 
these  dramas,  is  unquestionably  carried  to  a greater  extent 
than  in  any  other  of  the  author’s  productions.  The  two 
plays,  however,  are  too  widely  dissimilar  to  admit  of  any 
general  comparison.  The  “Midsummer-Night’s  Dream” 
is,  perhaps,  adorned  with  the  fairest  flowers  of  poetry,  and 
the  most  exquisite  and  delicate  word-paintings,  and  the 
most  varied  and  complicated  confusion  of  beauties;  but  the 
Tempest  posseses  a greater  unity  of  effect,  and  a greater 
combination  of  thought  and  interest,  and  a more  harmo- 
nious blending  of  opposite  elements. 

It  also  possesses  more  depth  of  feeling,  affection,  and 
sentiment,  and  passion,  and  a more  refined  and  contem- 
plative philosophy.  The  Tempest  is  generally  regarded  as 
the  finest  play,  and  the  “Midsummer-Night’s  Dream”  as 
the  finest  poem. 

In  the  character  of  Ariel  we  have  a beautiful  exhibition 
of  the  poet’s  power  for  giving  form  and  distinctness  to 


THE  TEMPEST. 


127 


winged  and  immortal  beings.  Ariel  is  called  “the  feature- 
less angel.”  He  hurries  to  and  fro-  with  the  swiftness  of 
thought,  and  drinks  the  air  before  him.  We  have  scarcely 
time  to  look  at  him  in  one  shape  before  we  see  him  in 
another.  He  is  as  frolicsome  and  mischievous  as  he  is 
bright  and  ethereal.  He  does  all  his  spiriting  gently,  and  is 
too  delicate  to  act  “ earthy  and  abhorred  commands.”  It 
matters  not  how  he  presents  himself  to  our  fancy,  either  as 
a water-nymph  or  a harpy,  or  “sleeping  in  a cowslip’s 
bell,”  or  “imprisoned  in  a cloven  pine,”  or  “diving  into 
the  fire”  or  “ into  the  salt  sea,”  or  “ riding  upon  the  curled 
clouds,”  or  “living  in  the  colors  of  the  rainbow,”  or 
“running  upon  the  sharp  wind  of  the  north,”  or  “flying 
upon  the  bat’s  back  after  summer  merrily,”  or  “refusing 
to  do  his  master’s  strong  bidding,”  he  seems  ever  the  same 
self-consistent  being,  kindling  thoughts  to  wander  through- 
out eternity. 

We  confess  our  inability  to  analyze  the  character  of 
Caliban.  He  is  something  infrahuman , a mixture  of  man, 
brute,  and  devil,  and  yet  he  in  no  way  presents  the  dis- 
tinctive elements  of  either.  Monster  as  he  is,  he  is  sensible 
to  kindness,  and  endeavors  to  show  his  gratitude  as  best 
his  savage  nature  will  allow  him.  He  says  to  Prospero : 

“ When  thou  cam’st  here  first 

Thou  strok’dst  me  and  made  much  of  me ; wouldst  give  me 
Water  with  berries  in  ’t,  and  teach  me  how 
To  name  the  bigger  light,  and  how  the  less, 

That  burn  by  day  and  night;  and  then  I loved  thee, 

And  show’d  thee  all  the  qualities  o’  the  isle, 

The  fresh  springs,  brine  pits,  barren  place,  and  fertile.” 

Plis  mind  has  been  compared  to  a dark  cave  through 
which  the  rays  of  light  serve  not  to  warm  or  illumine,  but 
to  set  in  motion  the  poisonous  vapors  that  generate  in  it. 

His  malignity  is  easily  aroused,  and,  when  it  is,  he  cares 
only  for  the  use  of  language  to  vent  the  deepest  curses. 


128 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Prospero  moves  through  the  diverse  elements  of  the 
Tempest  with  unequalled  power  and  beauty  and  wisdom. 
His  high  charms  work  only  for  the  noblest  and  most  praise- 
worthy ends. 

Shakspeare  has  chosen  him  to  utter  two  of  the  finest 
passages  of  poetry  in  the  drama.  It  is  almost  unnecessary 
to  say  that  we  mean  the  description  of  the  disappearance 
of  the  vision  he  has  conjured  up,  and  the  speech  where  he 
abjures  his  art,  and  proposes  to  break  his  staff  and  bury  it 
“ fathoms  in  the  earth/’  and  drown  his  book 

“Deeper  than  did  ever  plummet  sound.” 

The  former  is  so  full  of  poetic  splendor  that  we  cannot 
resist  reproducing  it  here  : 

“ Our  revels  now  are  ended.  These,  our  actors, 

As  I foretold  you,  were  all  spirits,  and 
Are  melted  into  air,  into  thin  air; 

And,  like  the  baseless  fabric  of  this  vision, 

The  cloud-capp’d  towers,  the  gorgeous  palaces, 

The  solemn  temples,  the  great  globe  itself, 

Yea,  all  which  it  inherit,  shall  dissolve, 

And,  like  this  unsubstantial  pageant,  faded, 

Leave  not  a rack  behind.  We  are  such  stuff 
As  dreams  are  made  on,  and  our  little  life 
Is  rounded  with  a sleep.” 

Miranda  is  the  most  purely  ideal  of  all  Shakspeare’ s 
women.  She  seems  to  belong  to  a higher  order  of  beings 
than  of  this  earth.  All  the  aerial  splendor  and  magical 
mystery  of  her  father’s  isle  seem  to  be  interwoven  in  her 
nature,  and  yet  she  is  as  distinct  and  palpable  a creation  as 
if  she  actually  existed  in  real  life.  She  has  no  acquired 
or  artificial  manners,  and  is  totally  ignorant  of  the  false 
notions  of  society  that  teach  us  to  flatter  and  dissemble. 
Modesty,  and  truth,  and  honor,  and  purity,  and  virtue,  and 
innocence  are  her  dower.  She  never  saw  one  of  her  own 
sex,  and  has  grown  up  with  no  companion  save  her  father, 


THE  TEMPEST. 


129 


and  the  ministering  spirits  of  the  air  and  the  rocks  and 
trees  and  caves  and  dells  and  brooks  and  fountains  of  her 
fairy  home.  Her  heart  swells  with  filial  affection  and  all 
the  attending  virtues  of  holy  innocence.  She  is  a celestial 
being,  breathing  thoughtful  breath.  She  sees  everything 
through  her  own  hallowed  imagination.  Even  Caliban  is 
to  her  simply  “a  villain  she  does  not  love  to  look  on.’ ’ 
No  wonder  Ferdinand  approaches  her  as  something  above 
the  earth  earthy,  as  “a  goddess  upon  whom  the  airs 
attend.” 

The  courtship  between  her  and  Ferdinand  is  managed 
with  exquisite  grace  and  delicacy. 

“ At  the  first  sight 
They  have  changed  eyes.” 

We  cannot  imagine  anything  more  beautiful  than  the  fol- 
lowing extracts  from  the  third  act : 

“ Fer.  Full  many  a lady 
I have  eyed  with  best  regard:  and  many  a time 
The  harmony  of  their  tongues  hath  into  bondage 
Brought  my  too  diligent  ear.  For  several  virtues 
Have  I liked  several  women ; never  any 
With  so  full  soul,  but  some  defect  in  her 
Did  quarrel  with  the  noblest  grace  she  owed, 

And  put  it  to  the  foil : But  you,  O,  you 
So  perfect  and  so  peerless,  are  created 
Of  every  creature’s  best. 

Wherefore  weep  you? 

“ Mira.  At  mine  own  unworthiness,  that  dare  not  offer 
What  I desire  to  give,  and  much  less  take 
What  I shall  die  to  want : But  this  is  trifling; 

And  all  the  more  it  seeks  to  hide  itself, 

The  bigger  bulk  it  shows.  Hence,  bashful  cunning, 

And  prompt  me  plain  and  holy  innocence  ! 

I am  your  wife,  if  you  will  marry  me ; 

If  not,  I ’ll  die  your  maid.  To  be  your  fellow, 

You  may  deny  me  ; but  I ’ll  be  your  servant, 

Whether  you  will  or  no.” 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


NTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA  deservedly  stands  in 


the  front  rank  of  Shakspeare’s  Roman  historical 
dramas.  It  is  one  of  the  most  wonderful,  varied,  and  mag- 
nificent of  all  his  creations.  There  is  an  irregular  grandeur 
about  it  that  presents  a striking  contrast  to  the  restrained 
and  thoughtful  emotions  and  passions  delineated  in  “ Corio- 
lanus  ” and  “Julius  Caesar.”  Critics  unite  in  the  opinion 
that  it  was  written  at  a period  when  the  author’s  mind  was 
in  the  fulness  of  its  power.  Coleridge  says  : “ The  highest 
praise,  or  rather  form  of  praise,  of  this  play,  which  I can 
offer  in  my  own  mind,  is  the  doubt  which  the  perusal 
always  occasions  in  me  whether  Antony  and  Cleopatra 
is  not,  in  all  exhibitions  of  a giant  power,  in  its  strength 
and  vigor  of  maturity,  a formidable  rival  of  ‘ Macbeth,’ 
‘Lear,’  ‘ Hamlet,’  and  ‘ Othello.’  ” 

He  places  it  in  mental  contrast  with  ‘ ‘ Romeo  and  Juliet,  ’ ’ 
as  the  love  of  passion  and  appetite  opposed  to  the  love  of 
affection  and  instinct,  and  perhaps  justly,  for  there  is  little 
or  no  resemblance  between  Juliet  and  Cleopatra,  the 
heroines  of  the  two  plays.  The  love  of  Juliet  is  the  love 
of  youth  and  innocence.  It  has  all  the  warmth,  and  ten- 
derness, and  luxuriance  of  the  climate  in  which  she  lived. 
The  love  of  Cleopatra,  on  the  contrary,  is  the  love  of  a 
woman,  as  she  herself  says,  who  has  passed  her  “salad 
days,”  and  is  no  longer  “green  in  judgment.”  It  is  a 
love  that  rages  like  the  fury  of  a north  wind.  It  is  vehe- 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  1 3 I 

ment,  tumultuous,  stormy.  It  has  the  strength  and  fierce- 
ness of  the  tiger  in  it.  There  is  nothing  crude  and  unripe 
about  it.  She  ever  struggles  to  increase  and  stimulate  it, 
and  to  mingle  with  it  all  the  cravings  of  a licentious  and 
voluptuous  nature. 

The  minuteness  with  which  Shakspeare  has  followed 
history  in  this  play  is  truly  wonderful.  He  has  embraced 
in  it  almost  every  incident  and  person  mentioned  by  Plu- 
tarch, and  what  is  added  has  such  an  air  of  truth  that  we  do 
not  once  think  of  doubting  its  reality.  Hence  Shakspeare’ s 
Cleopatra  is  the  Cleopatra  of  history.  In  depicting  her 
rare  beauty  and  accomplishments,  he  is  not  unmindful  of 
the  dark  shades  of  her  nature.  She  regards  human  life  and 
happiness  as  mere  playthings.  Murder  and  violence  are 
not  strangers  to  her  any  more  than  passion  and  lust.  She 
is  ‘ ‘ the  foul  Egyptian  ’ ’ as  well  as  the  ‘ ‘ great  fairy  ’ ’ and 
“ sweet  queen.”  It  is  next  to  an  impossibility  to  under- 
stand her  character  or  to  unravel  it,  if  indeed  it  is  not  inex- 
plicable. The  more  we  study  it,  the  more  we  are  puzzled 
and  bewildered.  Every  attempt  to  analyze  it  leads  us  into 
an  interminable  labyrinth  of  error  and  inconsistency.  It 
may  be  because  she  is  made  up  of  inconsistencies.  If  she 
is  consistent  in  anything,  it  is  in  being  inconsistent.  There 
is  a fascination  about  her  that  is  irresistible.  She  displays 
a thousand  graces  and  beauties  at  once,  and  a thousand 
faults  and  follies.  It  is  impossible  to  tell  what  to  admire 
most  in  her,  or  what  most  to  detest.  She  seems  to  be  as 
full  of  truth  and  honor  as  she  is  of  fickleness  and  falsehood. 
At  times  she  is  more  charming  and  witty  than  Beatrice, 
more  tender  and  beautiful  than  Imogen,  more  passionate 
and  enthusiastic  than  Juliet,  more  graceful  and  ethereal 
than  Miranda,  more  poetic  and  imaginative  than  Viola, 
and  more  stately  and  dignified  than  Hermione.  Then, 
again,  she  seems  to  be  very  far  from  anything  of  the  kind. 
If  she  is  unlike  any  one  it  is  Octavia,  who  is  of  a dull  and 


132 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


still  conversation,  who  shows  a body  rather  than  a life,  a 
statue  rather  than  a breather. 

Cleopatra  is  well  called  the  “ great  fairy,”  “enchant- 
ress,” “a  most  triumphant  lady,”  “cockatrice,”  “ser- 
pent of  old  Nile,”  “ nightingale,”  “cunning  past  man’s 
thought,”  “this  grave  charm,”  “ a most  wonderful  piece 
of  work,”  “the  rare  Egyptian,”  and  “noble  queen.” 

Every  word  she  utters,  every  thought  she  expresses  seems 
to  belong  wholly  to  her. 

What  a strange  method  she  has  of  enforcing  love  when 
she  says : 

“ See  where  he  is  — who  ’s  with  him  — what  he  does. 

(I  did  not  send  you.)  If  you  find  him  sad, 

Say  I am  dancing ; if  in  mirth,  report 
That  I am  sudden  sick!  Quick  and  return.” 

How  thoroughly  and  completely  she  fills  the  idea  of  a 
wilful  and  capricious  coquette  ! Enobarbus  tells  Antony,  in 
speaking  of  the  latter’s  departure  for  Rome,  “Cleopatra, 
catching  the  least  noise  of  this,  dies  instantly.  I have  seen 
her  die  twenty  times  upon  far  poorer  moment.” 

The  imagination  is  surfeited  with  the  description  of  her 
charms.  We  need  not  be  told  of  globed  and  gleaming 
limbs  — 

“ For  her  own  person, 

It  beggared  all  description.  She  did  lie 
In  her  pavilion  (cloth  of  gold  of  tissue) 

O’erpicturing  that  Venus  where  we  see 
The  fancy  outwork  nature. 

Age  cannot  wither  her,  nor  custom  stale 
Her  infinite  variety.  Other  women  cloy 
The  appetites  they  feed,  but  she  makes  hungry 
Where  most  she  satisfies.  For  vilest  things 
Become  themselves  in  her.” 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


153 


The  charm  by  which  she  enslaved  the  passions  of  Antony, 

“ the  greatest  soldier  of  the  world,”  “the  demi- Atlas  of 
the  earth,”  “the  arm  and  burgonet  of  men,”  is  admirably 
portrayed  in  the  following.  It  is  a wonderful  description 
of  the  imperial  and  self-conscious  power  of  woman’s  evil 
influence  over  the  affections  and  passions  of  man. 

“ That  time  ! — O times ! 

I laugh’d  him  out  of  patience;  and  that  night 
I laugh’d  him  into  patience ; and  next  morn, 

Ere  the  ninth  hour,  I drunk  him  to  his  bed; 

Then  put  my  tires  and  mantles  on  him,  whilst 
I wore  his  sword  Philippan.” 

Shakspeare  has  endowed  Antony  with  many  of  the 
noblest  attributes.  While  we  deplore  the  spell  of  “the 
enchantress”  over  him,  we  can  but  feel  that  he  must  be 
admired  as  “ the  garland  of  war,”  and  that  upon  his  sword 
should  sit  “ laurel  victory  and  smooth  success.” 

His  lasciviousness  and  “idleness  did  hatch  ten  thousand 
ills;  ” but  he  is  the  Antony  who  fought  at  Philippi  and  at 
Modena,  who  slew  Hirtius  and  Pansa,  and  endured  famine, 
though  “daintily  brought  up,”  with  “patience  more  than 
savages  could  suffer.”  He  is  the  “triple  pillar  of  the 
world,”  “the  great  Triumvir”  who  would  be  “treble- 
sinewed  hearted,  breath’d  and  fight  maliciously,”  “the 
Antony  whom  none  but  Antony  could  conquer.” 

The  scene  in  which  his  death  is  foreshadowed  is  what 
Hazlitt  calls  the  finest  piece  of  poetry  in  Shakspeare. 
“The  splendor  of  the  imagery,  the  semblance  of  reality, 
the  lofty  range  of  picturesque  objects  hanging  over  the 
world,  their  evanescent  nature,  the  total  uncertainty  of 
what  is  left  behind,  are  just  like  the  mouldering  schemes 
of  human  greatness.  ’ * 

“ Sometime  we  see  a cloud  that ’s  dragonish, 

A vapor  sometime  like  a bear  or  lion, 

A tower’d  citadel,  a pendant  rock, 


12 


134 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


A forked  mountain,  or  blue  promontory 

With  trees  upon  ’t,  that  nod  unto  the  world 

And  mock  our  eyes  with  air.  Thou  hast  seen  these  signs : 

They  are  black  vesper’s  pageants.” 

Antony  was  indeed  a fit  companion  for  Cleopatra  ; for 
who  but  one  “with  half  the  bulk  of  the  world  played  as 
he  pleased,”  could  mate  with  her? 

The  influence  she  wielded  over  Caesar  and  Pompey 
serves  to  heighten  the  power  of  her.  blandishments,  and 
palliate  the  conduct  of  him  who  “ madly  threw  a world 
away.  ’ ’ 

Caesar’s  marriage  with  her  was  merely  nominal,  but  it  is 
stated  that  he  lived  openly  with  her  in  his  palace  under  the 
eyes  of  his  legitimate  wife. 

Antony  speaks  of  Cleopatra  as  being  “half  blasted 
ere  he  knew  her,”  and  as  finding  her  “a  morsel  cold  upon 
dead  Caesar’s  trencher,”  and  as  a fragment  of  Cneius  Pom- 
pey’s ; but  history  hardly  confirms  the  story  of  her  liber- 
tinism with  Pompey. 

It  is  said  to  be  inconsistent  with  the  character  of  the 
man  whom  Cicero  describes  as  hominum  castum  et  severum 
et  integrum  et  gravem . 

One  of  the  finest  scenes  in  the  play  is  where  the  Egyp- 
tian Circe  calls  Charmian  to  give  her  “drink  of  mandra- 
gora,”  that  she  may  “sleep  out  this  great  gap  of  time  while 
Antony  is  away.  ” It  is  here  that  she  says : 

“ He’s  speaking  now 

Or  murmuring,  ‘ Where’s  my  serpent  of  old  Nile  ? y 
For  so  he  calls  me.  Now  I feed  myself 
With  most  delicious  poison.  Think  on  me 
That  am  with  Phoebus’  amorous  pinches  black. 

And  wrinkled  deep  in  time.” 


Antony  sends  her,  in  this  part  of  the  play,  a pearl,  with 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA.  I 35 

a message  that  he  will  piece  her  opulent  throne  with  king- 
doms, and  all  the  East  shall  call  her  mistress. 

Cleopatra's  warmth  of  affection  is  admirably  contrasted 
with  her  perverseness  and  petulance  in  the  scene  where 
she  receives  a messenger  from  Rome  with  the  tidings  of 
Antony's  marriage: 

“ Cleo.  Antony’s  dead  ? 

If  thou  say  so,  villain,  thou  kill’st  thy  mistress. 

But  well  and  free, 

If  thou  so  yield  him,  there  is  gold,  and  here 
My  bluest  veins  to  kiss ; a hand  that  kings 
Have  lipp’d,  and  trembled  kissing. 

Mess.  First,  madam,  he  is  well. 

Cleo.  Why,  there’s  more  gold.  But,  sirrah,  mark!  we  use 
To  say,  the  dead  are  well : bring  it  to  that, 

The  gold  I give  thee  will  I melt,  and  pour 
Down  thy  ill-uttering  throat. 

Mess.  Good  ma|am,  hear  me. 

Cleo.  Well,  go  to,  I will. 

But  there ’s  no  goodness  in  thy  face.  If  Antony 
Be  free  and  healthful,  why  so  tart  a favor 
To  trumpet  such  good  tidings!  If  not  well, 

Thou  should’st  come  like  a fury  crown’d  with  snakes, 

Not  like  a formal  man. 

Mess.  Will ’t  please  you  hear  me  ? 

Cleo.  I have  a mind  to  strike  thee  ere  thou  speak’st ; 

Yet  if  thou  say  Antony  lives,  is  well, 

Or  friends  with  Caesar,  or  not  captive  to  him, 

I ’ll  set  thee  in  a shower  of  gold,  and  hail 
Rich  pearls  upon  thee. 

Mess.  Madam,  he ’s  well. 

Cleo.  Well  said. 

Mess.  And  friends  with  Caesar. 

Cleo.  Thou  art  an  honest  man. 

Mess.  Caesar  and  he  are  greater  friends  than  ever. 

Cleo.  Make  thee  a fortune  from  me. 

Mess.  But  yet,  madam  — 

Cleo.  I do  not  like  but  yet — it  does  allay 
The  good  precedence.  He  upon  but  yet : 


136 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


But  yet  is  as  a gaoler  to  bring  forth 

Some  monstrous  malefactor.  Pr’ythee,  friend, 

Pour  out  thy  pack  of  matter  to  mine  ear, 

The  good  and  bad  together.  He ’s  friends  with  Caesar ; 

In  state  of  health,  thou  say’st ; and  thou  say’st  free. 

Mess.  Free,  madam  ! No  : I made  no  such  report. 

He ’s  bound  unto  Octavia. 

Madam,  he ’s  married  to  Octavia. 

Cleo.  The  most  infectious  pestilence  upon  thee ! 

[Strikes  him  down. 

Mess.  Good  madam,  patience. 

Cleo.  What  say  you  ? [( Strikes  him  again. 

Hence,  horrible  villain!  or  I ’ll  spurn  thine  eyes 
Like  balls  before  me  — I ’ll  unhair  thine  head  — 

Thou  shalt  be  whipp’d  with  wire,  and  stew  d in  brine. 

Smarting  in  ling’ring  pickle. 

Mess.  Gracious  madam ! 

I,  that  do  bring  the  news,  made  not  the  match. 

Cleo.  Say ’t  is  not  so,  a province  I will  give  thee. 

And  make  thy  fortunes  proud ; the  blow  thou  had’st 
Shall  make  thy  peace  for  moving  me  to  rage ; 

And  I will  boot  thee  with  what  gift  beside 
Thy  modesty  can  beg. 

Mess.  He ’s  married,  madam. 

Cleo.  Rogue,  thou  hast  lived  too  long.  [Draws  a dagger. 
Mess.  Nay,  then  I ’ll  run. 

What  mean  you,  madam  ? I have  made  no  fault.  [Exit. 

Char.  Good  madam,  keep  yourself  within  yourself; 

The  man  is  innocent. 

Cleo.  Some  innocents  ’scape  not  the  thunderbolt. 

Melt  Egypt  into  Nile ! and  kindly  creatures 
Turn  all  to  serpents!  — Call  the  slave  again; 

Though  I am  mad,  I will  not  bite  him.  — Call ! 

Char.  He  is  afraid  to  come. 

Cleo.  I will  not  hurt  him. 

These  hands  do  lack  nobility,  that  they  strike 
A meaner  than  myself,  since  I myself 
Have  given  myself  the  cause. 


ANTONY  AND  CLEOPATRA. 


137 


Lead  me  from  hence. 

I faint.  O Iras  — Charmian  — ’t  is  no  matter; 

Go  to  the  fellow,  good  Alexas.  Bid  him 
Report  the  feature  of  Octavia,  her  years, 

Her  inclination;  let  him  not  leave  out  [ Ex it  Alexas . 

The  color  of  her  hair.  Bring  me  word  quickly. 

Let  him  forever  go ! — Let  him  not  — Charmian, 

Though  he  be  painted  one  way  like  a Gorgon, 

T’  other  way  he ’s  a Mars.” 

This  scene,  perhaps,  gives  us  a better  idea  of  Cleopatra 
than  any  other  in  the  play.  In  no  other  part  of  it  does  she 
seem  to  fuse  together  so  much  majesty  and  spirit,  and  tal- 
ent, tact  and  wit,  pride  and  generosity,  petulance  and  wil- 
fulness, caprice  and  fickleness. 

Cleopatra’s  peculiar  qualities  are  displayed  in  every- 
thing she  does,  even  in  the  choice  of  her  attendants. 
Charmian  and  Iras  have  a recklessness  and  daring,  a wan- 
tonness and  levity,  that  seem  especially  adapted  for  minis- 
tering to  the  wants  and  pleasures  of  such  a queen.  A 
woman  like  Charmian,  who  wished  to  be  married  to  three 
kings  in  an  afternoon,  and  to  widow  them  all,  and  have  a 
child  at  fifty  to  whom  Herod  of  Jewry  might  do  homage, 
would  hardly  suit  for  the  companionship  of  any  one  else 
but  Cleopatra. 

The  grandeur  of  Cleopatra’s  death  does  much  to  relieve 
her  unpardonable  crimes,  and  to  soften  the  dark  traits  of 
her  character.  She  preserved  her  majesty  and  dignity  to 
the  last.  She  would  be  seen  even  in  death  only  as  a queen, 
crown  and  all.  Her  command  is:  “Go  fetch  my  best 
attires;  I am  again  for  Cydnus  to  meet  Marc  Antony.” 

She  who  boasted  in  the  presence  of  “the  case  of  that 
huge  spirit”  — 

“ It  were  for  me 

To  throw  my  sceptre  at  the  injurious  gods, 

12* 


I38  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

To  tell  them  that  this  world  did  equal  theirs, 

Till  they  had  stolen  our  jewel  ” — 

might  indeed  be  said  to  look,  in  death,  “like  sleep/ 9 and 

“ As  she  would  catch  another  Antony 
In  her  strong  toil  of  grace.” 


CYMBELINE. 


YMBELINE  is  the  most  romantic  and  imaginative  of 


all  Shakspeare’s  plays.  It  seems  to  give  birth  to 
every  wave  of  thought,  of  feeling,  of  sentiment,  and  reflec- 
tion. Every  excellence  in  woman  is  delineated  in  the  char- 
acter of  the  heroine,  Imogen.  She  is  the  very  soul  of 
purity,  of  honor,  of  gentleness,  and  goodness.  Every  word 
she  utters  sounds  like  a sweet  note  of  music  from  some  un- 
discovered orb  of  song.  Her  intellect  is  almost  as  won- 
derful as  her  beauty,  and  her  beauty  is  the  most  perfect 
dream  of  luxuriant  loveliness.  There  is  nothing  vain,  or 
haughty,  or  selfish  about  her.  She  is  as  peerless  in  the 
innate  delicacy  and  majesty  of  her  charms  as  a goddess. 
She  moves  through  an  atmosphere  of  corruption  and  deceit 
like  a breath  of  summer,  a glimpse  of  sunshine.  She  has 
the  deepest  and  most  exquisite  sensibilities,  and  the  purest 
and  loftiest  affections.  She  combines  in  herself  all  the 
grace  and  tenderness  and  innocence  and  simplicity  of 
youth,  and  all  the  strength  and  firmness  and  constancy  of 
mature  womanhood. 

The  plot  of  Cymbeline  is  derived  from  various  sources. 
Shakspeare  found  in  Holinshed’s  Chronicles  of  England 
and  Scotland  some  of  the  material  of  the  play,  including 
the  names  of  Cymbeline  and  his  sons,  together  with  some 
account  of  the  king’s  reign,  and  the  tribute  demanded  by 


140 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


the  Romans.  It  is  said  that  he  also  derived  the  beautiful 
name  of  Imogen  from  the  same  source,  and  that  in  the  old 
black-letter  it  is  scarcely  distinguished  from  Innogen,  the 
wife  of  Brute,  King  of  Britain. 

The  story  of  the  discovery  of  the  mole  upon  Imogen’s 
breast  is  taken  either  from  Boccaccio’s  beautiful  novel  of 
“ Zeneura  ” in  the  Decameron,  or  from  a French  romance 
entitled  De  La  Violette,  first  published  in  the  thirteenth 
century. 

The  hero  of  La  Violette , Gerard  de  Nevers,  called  the 
false  Paridel,  is  the  Iachimo  of  French  romance.  He  is 
described  as  being  young  and  handsome,  and  graced  with 
many  accomplishments.  He  obtains  by  stealth  the  knowl- 
edge of  a secret  mark  upon  the  breast  of  the  heroine. 

“ Et  vit  sur  sa  destre  mamele, 

Une  violete  novele, 

Ynde  parut  sous  la  char  blanche.” 

The  above  lines,  Verplanck  says,  bear  some  resemblance 
to  the  description  of  the  same  incident  in  Cymbeline  ; but 
adds,  it  is  probable  the  English  poet  never  read  the  story, 
and  what  seems  to  be  an  adaptation  should  be  regarded 
only  as  a remarkable  coincidence. 

Collier,  in  his  “ Shakspeare’s  Library,”  gives  an  account 
of  a French  miracle-play,  published  in  1639,  which  con- 
tains some  of  the  incidents  of  Cymbeline  : the  wager  on  the 
chastity  of  the  heroine,  her  flight  in  the  disguise  of  a page, 
the  proof  of  her  innocence,  and  her  final  restoration  to  her 
husband.  Mr.  Collier  says  that  the  French  play  contains 
two  circumstances  introduced  into  Cymbeline  not  found 
in  any  other  version  of  the  story,  viz.:  the  method  of  assail- 
ing the  heroine’s  virtue  by  exciting  her  anger  and  jealousy; 
and  the  boast  of  one  of  the  characters  that  “if  he  were 
allowed  the  opportunity  of  speaking  to  her  but  twice,  he 
should  be  able  to  accomplish  his  design.” 


CYMBELINE. 


141 

Shakspeare  was  doubtless  acquainted  with  this  play,  but 
it  is  evident,  we  think,  that  he  made  use  of  Boccaccio’s  novel. 
He  was  doubtless  sufficiently  versed  in  the  Italian  to  read 
it  in  the  original.  We  can  imagine  the  impression  Boc- 
caccio’s charming  story  made  upon  his  mind,  for  it  is  the 
most  exquisite  creation  in  the  Decameron.  The  Griseldis 
will  not  begin  to  compare  to  it.  It  is  even  more  fascinating 
than  the  “ Giletta  di  Narbonna.”  Each  and  all  the  inci- 
dents are  related  with  singular  sweetness,  and  power,  and 
beauty,  and  clearness. 

The  reader’s  attention  is  charmed  from  the  beginning  to 
the  close.  The  whole  story  is  suffused  with  a soft,  mellow 
beauty  almost  unequalled.  If  Boccaccio  had  not  written 
anything  else,  his  fame  as  a novelist  and  as  a master  of  lan- 
guage would  have  been  established.  It  is  almost  impos- 
sible to  help  loving  the  heroine,  the  young  and  beautiful 
Zeneura.  She  is,  indeed,  one  who  takes  all  hearts  captive. 
She  is,  we  are  told,  mistress  of  her  needle,  discreet  and  well 
bred,  skilled  in  accounts,  in  horsemanship,  and  in  the  man- 
agement of  a hawk.  No  one  can  read  the  story  without 
deeply  sympathizing  with  her  long  and  patient  wanderings, 
and  rejoicing  at  the  punishment  of  the  fiend  who  boasted, 
“ Woman  only  is  pure  who  has  never  been  asked,  or  she 
who  herself  has  asked,  and  been  refused.” 

But  beautiful  as  is  Boccaccio’s  story,  Zeneura  cannot  be 
compared  to  Imogen.  We  see  in  the  former  only  a rugged 
outline  of  the  depths  and  soundings  of  the  human  passions, 
of  the  delicate  and  tender  and  confiding  loveliness  of  the 
soul  so  wonderfully  and  elegantly  portrayed  in  the  latter. 
There  are  so  many  beauties  in  Imogen’s  character  that  it  is 
almost  impossible  to  analyze  them  or  describe  them. 

In  the  parting  scene  in  the  first  act  we  have  the  following 
inimitable  description  of  unselfish  love : 

“Nay,  stay  a little. 

Were  you  but  riding  forth  to  air  yourself. 


142 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Such  parting  were  too  petty.  Look  here,  love: 

This  diamond  ring  was  my  mother’s;  take  it,  heart, 

But  keep  it  till  you  woo  another  wife, 

When  Imogen  is  dead.” 

How  deeply  she  feels  the  reproaches  of  her  father  against 
her  husband,  when  she  says : 

“ There  cannot  be  a pinch  in  death 
More  sharp  than  this  is.” 

And  again,  in  the  following: 

“ Imogen.  I beseech  you,  sir, 

< Harm  not  yourself  with  your  vexation ; I 

Am  senseless  of  your  wrath;  a touch  more  rare 
Subdues  all  pangs,  all  fears. 

Cymbeline.  Past  grace  ? obedience  ? 

Imogen.  Past  hope,  and  in  despair — that  way  past  grace.” 

She  must  be  more  than  mortal  to  bear  up  under  her 
heavy  burdens.  She  is  compelled  to  submit  to  the  unex- 
ampled tyranny  of  “a  father  governed  by  a step-dame 
hourly  coining  plots/  ’ and  to  the  serpent-like  approaches 
of  the  “yellow  Iachimo,”  who  is  destitute  of  any  redeem- 
ing traits  whatever.  This  fiend,  armed  with  audacity  from 
head  to  foot,  like  Iago,  only  lives  to  assail  virtue  and  destroy 
happiness.  His  moral  constitution  is  utterly  incapable  of 
digesting  anything  but  poison.  And  yet  he  is  introduced 
to  Imogen  as  “one  of  the  noblest  note/*  as  one  to  whom 
her  husband  is  “most  infinitely  tied.”  When  this  base 
slanderer  insinuates  that  Posthumus  is  a runagate  from  her 
bed,  and  indulges  in  “vaulting  variable  ramps”  at  her  ex- 
pense, she  believes  nothing  in  haste,  and  offers  no  other 
reproach  than 

“My  lord,  I fear,  has  forgot  Britain.” 

The  more  we  study  her,  the  more  we  love  and  admire 


CYMBELINE. 


143 


her.  She  ever  presents  the  most  complete  and  perfect  idea 
of  womanhood.  Even  in  the  most  trying  scenes  she  never 
loses  her  self-possession.  Shakspeare  has  nowhere  given 
a wider  scope  to  his  imagination  than  in  the  delineation  of 
her  character.  And  yet  none  of  his  heroines  are  more  life- 
like and  natural.  She  charms  all  who  behold  her.  Even 
in  her  male  attire  we  are  constantly  impressed  with  the  in- 
born delicacy  and  refinement  and  purity  of  her  principles. 
She  is,  indeed,  the  embodiment  of  love  and  innocence,  the 
sweetest,  fairest  lily.  No  wonder  Guiderius  exclaims,  when 
seeing  her  disguised  as  a page,  “ Were  you  a woman,  youth, 
I should  woo  hard  but  be  your  groom,  in  honesty,”  and 
that  Lucius,  the  Roman  general,  should  call  her  “ the  page 
so  kind,  so  duteous,  diligent.” 

Her  conjugal  affection  is  beautifully  described  in  the 
following : 

“ Imogen  O for  a horse  with  wings ! Hear’st  thou,  Pisanio  ? 
He  is  at  Milford  Haven.  Read  and  tell  me 
How  far  ’t  is  thither.  If  one  of  mean  affairs 
May  plod  it  in  a week,  why  may  not  I 
Glide  thither  in  a day  ? Then,  true  Pisanio  — 

(Who  long’st,  like  me,  to  see  thy  lord  — who  long’s!  — 

O let  me  bate  — but  not  like  me — yet  long’st, 

But  in  a fainter  kind — O not  like  me, 

For  mine ’s  beyond  beyond) — say,  and  speak  thick  — 
(Love’s  counsellor  should  fill  the  bores  of  hearing 
To  the  smothering  of  the  sense) — how  far  is  it 
To  this  same  blessed  Milford  ? And,  by  the  way. 

Tell  me  how  Wales  was  made  so  happy,  as 
To  inherit  such  a haven.  But,  first  of  all. 

How  we  may  steal  from  hence,  and  for  the  gap 
That  we  shall  make  in  time,  from  our  hence  going 
And  our  return,  to  excuse.  But  first,  how  get  hence  ? 

Why  should  excuse  be  born,  or  e’er  begot? 

We  ’ll  talk  of  that  hereafter.  Pr’ythee  speak, 

Plow  many  score  of  miles  may  we  well  ride 
’Twixt  hour  and  hour? 


144 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Pisanio.  One  score,  ’twixt  sun  and  sun, 

Madam,  ’s  enough  for  you;  and  too  much  too. 

Imogen.  Why,  one  that  rode  to  his  execution,  man, 
Could  never  go  so  slow  ! 


I would  have  broke  my  eyestrings,  crack’d  them,  but 
To  look  upon  him,  till  the  diminution 
Of  space  had  pointed  him  sharp  as  my  needle ; 

Nay,  follow’d  him,  till  he  had  melted  from 
The  smallness  of  a gnat  to  air;  and  then 
Have  turn’d  mine  eye,  and  wept.” 

Perhaps  the  most  luxurious  display  of  the  personal  charms 
of  woman  in  Shakspeare  is  the  description  of  Imogen  in 
the  sleeping  scene.  It  is  unequalled  for  the  gorgeous  rich- 
ness of  its  coloring,  and  the  variety  and  splendor  of  its 
imagery : 

“ The  crickets  sing,  and  man’s  o’erlabor’d  sense 
Repairs  itself  by  rest ; our  Tarquin  thus 
Did  softly  press  the  rushes,  ere  he  ’waken’d 
The  chastity  he  wounded.  Cytherea, 

How  bravely  thou  becom’st  thy  bed  ! fresh  lily, 

And  whiter  than  the  sheets ! that  I might  touch 
But  kiss,  one  kiss!  rubies  unparagon’d! 

How  dearly  they  do ’t ! ’T  is  her  breathing  that 
Perfumes  the  chamber  thus;  the  flame  o’  the  taper 
Bows  toward  her,  and  would  underpeep  her  lids 
To  see  th’  enclosed  lights  now  canopied 
Under  these  windows,  white  and  azure,  laced 
With  blue  of  heaven’s  own  tirict.  . . . 

On  her  left  breast 

A mole  cinque-spotted  like  the  crimson  drops 
I’  the  bottom  of  a cowslip.” 

The  words  in  which  she  mourns  the  loss  of  her  bracelet, 
which  Iachimo  had  stolen  for  the  purpose  of  convincing  her 
husband  of  her  infidelity,  are  beautiful  beyond  description  : 

“ Go,  bid  my  woman 
Search  for  a jewel  that  too  casually 


CYMBELINE. 


145 


Hath  left  my  arm.  It  was  thy  master’s;  ’shrew  me 
If  I would  lose  it  for  a revenue 
Of  any  king’s  in  Europe.  I do  think 
I saw ’t  this  morning;  confident  I am 
Last  night  ’t  was  on  my  arm.  I kiss’d  it. 

I hope  it  has  not  gone  to  tell  my  lord 
That  I kiss  aught  but  he.” 

It  has  been  said  that  “ our  consciousness  that  the  bracelet 
is  really  gone  to  bear  false  witness  against  her,  adds  an  in- 
expressibly touching  effect  to  the  simplicity  and  tenderness 
of  the  sentiment.” 

In  studying  this  play,  it  is  difficult  to  believe  that  Post- 
humus deserves  forgiveness.  His  wager  about  his  wife’s 
chastity,  and  his  readiness  to  believe  her  guilty,  to  say 
nothing  of  his  rashness  in  pursuing  his  revenge,  one  would 
think  could  scarcely  excite  any  other  feeling  than  that  of 
contempt.  But  then,  on  the  other  hand,  we  must  not  for- 
get Imogen’s  unconquerable  love  for  him,  and  that  she  her- 
self forgave  him,  and  that  he  is  described  as  one  who  sat 
among  men  like  a descended  god,  with  an  honor  about  him 
of  more  than  mortal  seeming. 


13 


ALL’S  WELL  THAT  ENDS  WELL. 


HIS  play  was  originally  called  “Love’s  Labor  Won.” 


It  is  not  known  why  or  by  whom  the  title  was  changed. 
Meares,  a contemporary  of  Shakspeare,  speaks  of  “Love’s 
Labor  Won”  as  being  among  the  best  of  Shakspeare’ s 
comedies.  He  doubtless  refers  to  this  play,  for  there  is 
no  other  of  the  author’s  dramas  to  which  the  title  is  appli- 
cable. Moreover,  there  are  several  passages  in  the  text  in 
which  allusions  are  made  to  its  original  name.  In  the  fifth 
act,  Helena  says  to  Bertram : 

“ This  is  done  ; 

Will  you  be  mine  now — you  are  doubly  won  ? ” 

And  again  we  have  — 

“ The  king ’s  a beggar,  now  the  play  is  done ; 

All  is  well  ended  if  this  suit  be  won.” 

Coleridge  describes  this  drama  as  the  counterpart  of 
“ Love’s  Labor  Lost,”  and  expresses  the  opinion  that  it  was 
written  at  two  different  and  distant  periods  of  the  poet’s 
life,  and  points  out  two  distinct  styles,  not  only  of  thought, 
but  of  expression.  Evidently  its  chief  purpose  is  to  depict 
the  labor  of  love,  or  the  triumphs  of  love,  over  the  most 
untoward  circumstances.  The  following  speech  of  Helena 
beautifully  illustrates  the  unwavering  and  self-confident 
power  of  this  absorbing  passion : 


146 


all’s  well  that  ends  well. 


147 


“Our  remedies  oft  in  ourselves  do  lie, 

Which  we  ascribe  to  Heaven;  the  fated  sky 
Gives  us  free  scope;  only  doth  backward  pull 
Our  slow  designs  when  we  ourselves  are  dull. 

What  power  is  it  which  mounts  my  love'so  high, 

That  makes  me  see,  and  cannot  feed  mine  eye? 

The  mightiest  space  in  fortune  nature  brings 
To  join  like  likes  and  kiss  like  native  things. 

Impossible  be  strange  attempts  to  those 
That  weigh  their  pains  in  sense,  and  do  suppose 
What  hath  been  cannot  be.  Whoever  strove 
To  show  her  merit  that  did  miss  her  love?” 

The  plot,  like  that  of  “ Cymbeline,”  is  taken  from  Boc- 
caccio. With  the  single  exception  of  the  story  of  Zeneura, 
it  is  unquestionably  the  best  in  the  Decameron. 

The  heroine,  Giletta  de  Narbonna,  is  the  daughter  of 
a distinguished  physician  at  the  court  of  Roussilon,  in 
France.  When  but  a child  she  falls  in  love  with  a hand- 
some youth,  Count  Beltram  de  Roussilon,  with  whom  she 
was  brought  up.  His  father’s  death  obliged  him  to  go  to 
Paris.  Giletta  was  almost  inconsolable  during  his  absence, 
and  anxiously  awaited  some  pretext  to  go  thither  to  see 
him.  Her  hand,  the  author  tells  us,  was  sought  in  marriage 
by  many  on  whom  her  guardian  would  willingly  have  be- 
stowed her,  but  she  rejects  them  all  without  assigning  any 
reason.  She  receives  intelligence  that  the  king  is  suffering 
from  a painful  and  dangerous  disease,  which  had  baffled  the 
skill  of  the  ablest  physicians  of  the  land.  She  suddenly 
conceives  the  idea  of  going  to  Paris  with  the  hope  of  curing 
him  with  one  of  her  father’s  prescriptions.  Pier  plans  are 
soon  put  in  execution.  The  king  receives  her  with  the 
utmost  kindness,  and  promises  her,  if  she  succeeds  in  con- 
quering his  disease,  to  bestow  her  in  marriage  to  a person 
of  noble  birth.  Through  her  skill  he  is  completely  restored 
to  health,  and  she  claims  the  hand  of  her  playmate  and 
early  love,  Count  Beltram  de  Roussilon.  The  count  at  first 


148 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


rejects  her  offer  of  marriage  with  scorn  and  contempt,  but 
finally  consents  to  the  union  in  obedience  to  the  wishes  of 
his  sovereign.  He  deserts  her  upon  the  day  of  the  wed- 
ding, and  engages  in  the  war  of  the  Florentines  against  the 
Senesi. 

Giletta  does  everything  in  her  power  to  win  his  love  and 
esteem,  and  to  induce  him  to  return  to  his  home.  Her 
conduct  is  indeed  exemplary.  Her  subjects  almost  wor- 
ship her  for  her  queenly  dignity,  modesty,  beauty,  prudence, 
virtue,  and  wisdom.  These  excellences  make  no  impres- 
sion whatever  upon  her  husband,  who  refuses  to  return  to 
her  only  on  the  seemingly  impossible  conditions  that  she 
shall  bear  him  a son,  and  obtain  possession  of  a ring  which 
he  always  wears  upon  his  finger.  Love  is  too  deeply  en- 
throned in  her  bosom  to  allow  her  to  despair.  She  dis- 
guises herself  as  a pilgrim,  and  goes  to  Florence,  where  she 
learns  that  the  count  is  making  improper  overtures  to  a 
lady  of  that  city.  She  becomes  acquainted  with  her,  and, 
through  her,  obtains  possession  of  the  ring.  She  also  in- 
duces her  to  make  an  assignation  with  him,  in  which  she 
supplies  her  place.  Giletta  gives  birth  to  two  sons,  and  the 
count,  on  learning  her  stratagem,  is  confounded  with  love 
and  admiration,  and  lives  with  her  ever  afterward  with 
great  joy  and  happiness. 

The  principal  incidents  in  the  story  are  followed  with 
wonderful  minuteness  and  fidelity  in  the  drama.  The  poet 
changed  the  name  of  Giletta  to  Helena,  and  Beltram  to 
Bertram. 

Hazlitt,  whose  love  for  Shakspeare  is  almost  idolatrous, 
and  who  indeed  openly  confesses  his  idolatry,  says  that  the 
poet  dramati  ed  Boccaccio’s  novel  “with  great  skill  and 
comic  effects,  and  preserved  all  the  beauty  of  the  character 
and  sentiment  without  improving  upon  it  — which  was  im- 
possible.” 

This  praise  of  Boccaccio  is  perhaps  too  extravagant, 


all’s  well  that  ends  well. 


149 


though  it  is  difficult  to  imagine  anything  finer  in  the  way 
of  a story  than  Boccaccio’s,  for  it  is  told  with  the  utmost 
simplicity,  sweetness,  and  pathos.  But  Shakspeare  has, 
we  think,  improved  it  by  elaborating  the  incidents,  and 
by  adorning  it  with  new  creations,  and  developing  the 
individual  beauty  of  the  character  of  the  heroine.  Indeed, 
it  could  not  be  otherwise.  The  truth  is,  that  Shakspeare’ s 
genius  consecrates  everything  it  touches.  He  carries  the 
world  along  with  him,  and  whenever  an  object  pleases  him 
he  gives  it  a new  life  and  beauty.  A power  mightier  than 
Nature’s  seems  ever  to  be  unbosoming  its  secrets  to  him. 
It  is  impossible  to  describe  his  soft  and  delicate  fancy,  or 
the  breadth  and  clearness  of  his  vision  ; for  he  sees  all  things 
as  far  as  angels’  ken.  Everything  about  him  is  subtle,  won- 
derful, and  magical.  He  gives  even  “to  airy  nothing  a 
local  habitation  and  a name.  ’ ’ All  his  creations  are  symbols 
of  truth  and  moral  beauty.  They  address  every  feeling  of 
humanity,  every  sentiment  and  passion.  He  bestows  grace 
and  dignity  upon  the  most  commonplace  subjects,  and  they 
become  ever  afterward  objects  of  delight  and  reverence. 

His  female  characters  have  an  irresistible  charm  about 
them  for  which  we  may  look  in  vain  for  a parallel  else- 
where. His  Helena  is  a pure  effusion  of  genius.  She  is  the 
very  apotheosis  of  womanhood.  She  is  not  only  a maid  too 
virtuous  for  the  contempt  of  empire,  but  the  most  perfect 
ideal  of  a wife.  Our  thoughts  revert  to  her  again  and  again, 
and  each  time  with  increasing  admiration  and  delight.  The 
depth  and  intensity  of  her  love,  and  the  refinement  and 
purity  of  her  principles,  vibrate  with  every  breeze  of  feel- 
ing. Her  gentleness  and  resolution  are  almost  equal  to  her 
beauty,  and  she  is  described  as  one 

“ Whose  beauty  did  astonish  the  survey 
Of  richest  eyes ; whose  words  all  ears  took  captive ; 

Whose  dear  perfection  hearts  that  scorned  to  serve 
Humbly  called  mistress.” 


150  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

She  is  placed  in  the  most  trying  situations,  and  surrounded 
by  the  most  degrading  circumstances.  In  her  the  ordinary 
rules  of  courtship  are  reversed.  She  is  compelled  to  appear 
herself  as  a wooer,  and  to  court  her  lover  both  as  a maid 
and  as  a wife,  and  yet  she  does  not  violate  a single  law  of 
modesty  or  propriety.  Her  combination  of  intellect  and 
passion  is  truly  wonderful.  Her  self-possession  never  de- 
serts her.  She  is  ever  looking  forward  to  a bright  and  happy 
future.  She  seems  to  hope  even  against  hope^  and  to  be- 
lieve when  faith  seems  fatuity.  What  could  be  finer  than 
her  description  of  her  love  for  Bertram,  who,  by  the  laws 
of  society,  is  placed  above  her  in  social  position  : 

“ My  imagination 

Carries  no  favor  in  it  but  my  Bertram’s ; 

I am  undone  — there  is  no  living,  none, 

If  Bertram  be  away.  It  were  all  one 
That  I should  love  a bright,  particular  star, 

And  think  to  wed  it,  he  is  so  above  me : 

In  his  bright  radiance  and  collateral  light 
Must  I be  comforted,  not  in  his  sphere. 

Th’  ambition  in  my  love  thus  plagues  itself. 

The  hind  that  would  be  mated  by  the  lion 

Must  die  for  love.  ’T  was  pretty,  though  a plague, 

To  see  him  every  hour;  to  sit  and  draw 
His  arched  brows,  his  hawking  eye,  his  curls, 

In  our  heart’s  table ; heart  too  capable 
Of  every  line  and  trick  of  his  sweet  favor : 

But  now  he ’s  gone,  and  my  idolatrous  fancy 
Must  sanctify  his  relics.” 

Poor  Helena,  true  to  the  instincts  of  her  sex,  has  not  the 
slightest  idea  of  her  own  merit.  When  she  cannot  win  her 
lord  to  look  upon  her,  she  thinks  it  is  because  she  is  un- 
worthy of  him. 

Her  unwearied  patience  is  rewarded  at  last  — 

“ For  time  will  bring  on  summer, 

When  briers  shall  have  leaves  as  well  as  thorns, 

And  be  as  sweet  as  sharp.” 


all’s  well  that  ends  WELL.  1 5 1 

It  has  been  well  questioned  whether  Bertram  deserves 
her  unconquerable  faith  of  affection,  her  deep  and  lasting 
attachment.  Dr.  Johnson  describes  him  as  a man  noble 
without  generosity,  and  young  without  truth.  He  con- 
demns him,  as  well  he  may,  for  sneaking  home  to  a sec- 
ond marriage,  and  defending  himself  with  falsehood  against 
his  wife’s  accusations.  His  foolish  pride  of  birth  seems, 
however,  to  be  his  greatest  fault.  His  compulsory  mar- 
riage, 4 6 being  compelled  to  submit  his  fancy  to  other  eyes,” 
when  the  ardor  and  impetuosity  of  his  youth  longed  for 
freedom  and  frowned  upon  restraint,  should  probably  in 
some  measure  extenuate  his  conduct.  Besides,  his  faults 
seem  absolutely  necessary  in  order  to  develop  Helena’s  in- 
tensity of  passion,  and  strength,  and  firmness  of  character. 

It  is  impossible  to  help  loving  the  countess,  Helena’s 
guardian.  She  is  a living  and  an  essential  truth.  Mrs. 
Jameson  says,  “She  is  like  one  of  Titian’s  old  women,  who 
still  amid  their  wrinkles  remind  us  of  that  soul  of  beauty 
and  sensibility  which  must  have  animated  them  when 
young.”  She  is  a perfect  mistress  of  her  own  thoughts. 
The  rose  of  her  spirit  is  kept  bright  and  beautiful  to  the 
last.  Age  cannot  dull  her  sensibilities,  or  curb  even  for  a 
moment  the  sweet  and  gentle,  and  kind  and  generous,  and 
pure  and  holy  emotions  of  her  soul.  The  purity  of  her 
principles  and  her  self-forgetting  love  are  enough  to  evoke 
the  admiration  of  the  angels.  She  is  never  unmindful  of 
the  lessons  of  experience,  but  ever  cherishes  them  as  sacred 
treasures.  How  beautiful  are  her  reflections  when  she  dis- 
covers the  pangs  of  Helena’s  unrequited  love ! She  says: 

“ Even  so  was  it  with  me  when  I was  young. 

. . . . This  thorn 

Doth  to  our  rose  of  youth  rightly  belong; 

It  is  the  show  and  seal  of  Nature’s  truth, 

When  love’s  strong  passion  is  impressed  in  youth.” 


152 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


The  witty  and  eccentric  Lord  Lafeu  is  a very  charming 
character. 

Every  one  has  the  utmost  contempt  for  Parolles.  His 
impudence  and  poltroonery  are  disgusting  in  the  extreme. 
“His  soul  is  in  his  clothes.’ ’ He  is,  in  every  sense  of  the 
word,  a contemptible  “pronoun”  of  a man.  Critics  may 
well  marvel  that  this  “lump  of  counterfeit  ore”  “should 
know  what  he  is  and  be  that  he  is.”  “ He  is  created  on 
purpose  for  men  to  breathe  themselves  upon.”  He  is  “a 
notorious  liar,”  and  “solely  a coward;”  and  yet  the  ele- 
ments of  wit  and  humor  are  so  mixed  in  him  that  he  fur- 
nishes us  with  an  inexhaustible  vein  of  mirth  and  laughter. 


EDWIN  BOOTH. 


153 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  “ MACBETH.” 

IT  has  been  said  that  many  gifts  and  accomplishments 
must  meet  in  him  who  would  be  a commentator  upon 
Shakspeare ; that  in  this  case,  to  know  something  of  every- 
thing, but  everything  of  something,  is  necessary  for  success. 
But  great  as  are  the  attributes  required  of  a commentator, 
incomparably  greater  must  be  the  gifts  of  the  actor  of  Shaks- 
peare. He  must  be  a being  who  can  rise  superior  to  time 
and  place,  for  the  thoughts  and  passions  he  is  to  express 
and  delineate  belong  not  only  to  the  past  and  the  present, 
but  to  the  future.  His  mind  must  be  capable  of  compre- 
hending the  arts  and  sciences.  He  must  be  versed  not  only 
in  history,  but  in  the  philosophy  of  history.  He  must  be 
a student  of  nature  and  a judge  of  nature,  and,  above  all, 
of  character.  He  must  possess  the  quality  of  identifying 
himself  with  the  being  he  is  to  personate.  He  must  be  his 
own  teacher,  for  if  he  stoops  to  imitation  he  degrades  his 
art.  Hence  it  is  that  our  greatest  actors  have  been  the 
greatest  innovators  on  the  customs  and  manners  of  others. 
The  innovations  of  Garrick,  on  the  style  of  acting  adopted 
by  Quin  and  Betterton,  were  such  as  for  a time  to  make 
him  very  unpopular.  Kemble  attempted  to  set  up  a school 
of  his  own,  and  in  some  respects  succeeded.  Both  Garrick 
and  Kemble  were  men  of  fine  scholastic  attainments,  but 
the  former,  in  spite  of  his  many  excellences,  represented 
Macbeth  as  a blustering  and  cowardly  tyrant,  who  thought 

i55 


I56  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

only  of  blood  and  murder,  as  a being  wholly  destitute  of 
any  redeeming  traits  whatever. 

Byron  was  accustomed  to  say  that  of  actors  Cooke  was 
the  most  natural,  Kemble  the  most  supernatural,  and  Kean 
the  medium  between  the  two,  and  that  Mrs.  Siddons  was 
worth  them  all  put  together.  He  did  not,  however,  record 
any  opinion  of  Junius  Brutus  Booth,  who  combined  excel- 
lences that  did  not  belong  to  any  of  the  above-named.  But, 
to  judge  from  contemporaneous  criticism,  and  the  traditions 
of  the  stage,  Edwin  Booth,  the  son  of  Junius  Brutus  Booth, 
has  surpassed  in  the  power  and  brilliancy  of  his  genius  all 
the  great  actors  who  have  gone  before  him.  He  seems  to 
have  taken  the  lovers  of  the  drama,  as  it  were,  by  storm. 
He  has  brought  to  bear  upon  his  profession  the  rarest  per- 
sonal gifts  and  the  most  superior  mental  accomplishments. 
He  has  revealed  beauties  in  Shakspeare  that  were  undreamed 
of  before.  He  has  thrust  aside  old  stage  tricks  and  cus- 
toms. He  has  shown  us  the  folly  of  set  speeches  and  pomp- 
ous intonations.  He  has  completely  charmed  us  with  the 
varied  witchery  of  his  powers.  He  has  aspired  to  the  uni- 
versal in  the  realms  of  art  and  knowledge,  and  success  has 
crowned  his  efforts.  We  can  account  very  readily  for  his 
success  in  some  of  his  characters,  for  instance,  in  Hamlet, 
for  the  character  is  not  wholly  unlike  his  own.  His  hand- 
some person,  elegant  graces,  and  quiet  dignity,  combined 
with  his  wealth  of  voice,  are  eminently  fitted  for  the  sub- 
limest  representations  of  this  great  conception  of  Shakspeare. 

The  mournful  words  — 

“ I have  of  late,  but  wherefore  I know  not, 

Lost  all  my  mirth,  foregone  all  customs  of  exercises”  — 

seem  to  bespeak  his  own  sentiments  and  passions.  The  same 
thing  can  be  said  of  the  soliloquy  on  suicide,  while  his 
friendship  for  Rosencranz  and  Guildenstern,  the  deferred 
but  deeply-seated  revenge,  the  wild  love  for  Ophelia,  and 
the  philosophical  meditations  at  her  grave,  the  chivalric 
bearing  toward  Laertes,  the  speech  — 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  MACBETH. 


1 57 


“ Not  a whit.  We  defy  augury.  There  is  a special  providence  in 
the  fall  of  a sparrow.  If  it  be  now,  ’t  is  not  to  come;  if  it  be  not  to 
come,  it  will  be  now;  if  it  be  not  come  yet,  it  will  come.  The  readi- 
ness is  all,  since  no  man  of  aught  he  leaves  knows  what  is ’t  to  leave 
betimes.  Let  be  ” - — 

and  all  Hamlet’s  thoughts,  speeches,  words,  and  actions 
are  anything  else  but  foreign  to  the  proud  and  sensitive  and 
philosophical  and  poetical  nature  of  Edwin  Booth. 

But  by  what  wondrous  power  doth  he  transform  himself 
into  the  bloody  Thane  of  Cawdor,  and  fearlessly  visit  the 
blasted  heath,  invoke  the  magic  spell  of  the  weird  sisters, 
look  on  death  itself,  and  sleep  in  spite  of  thunder  ? The 
question  must  remain  unanswered.  It  is  inexplicable.  We 
only  know  that  it  is  the  exclusive  gift  and  prerogative  of 
genius. 

Booth  studied  the  character  of  Macbeth  thoroughly 
and  completely  before  he  attempted  to  portray  it.  His 
Hamlet,  we  believe,  has  been  slowly  perfected  by  study, 
time,  and  thought ; but  there  has  been  no  improvement  in 
his  Macbeth  since  his  first  appearance  in  the  character,  nor 
can  there  be  any,  for  he  mastered  it  from  the  beginning. 
If  he  does  not  play  it  as  well  at  one  time  as  at  another,  it 
is  from  sheer  lack  of  physical  force.  He  seizes  at  once 
upon  the  imagination,  and  holds  us  sp^ll-bound  until  the  end 
of  the  drama,  and  we  cannot  break  the  spell  if  we  would. 

His  appearance  upon  the  stage,  heralded  by  distant  strains 
of  martial  music,  and  the  exclamation  of  one  of  thfe  weird 
sisters  — 

“ A drum ! a drum ! Macbeth  doth  come ! ” 
presents  a picture  of  the  grandest  magnificence.  We  realize 
all  the  splendid  pageantry  of  war,  and  the  glory  of  a con- 
queror. He  is  proudly  followed  by  his  victorious  army, 
that  beat  back  “ Norway  himself  with  terrible  numbers.” 
He  surveys  majestically  their  burnished  shields,  waving 
banners,  and  glittering  spears.  His  brow  is  flushed  with 
triumph,  and  every  look  and  movement  bespeaks  the  c.on- 

14 


i58 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


queror,  whose  brandished  sword  but  an  hour  before  smoked 
with  bloody  execution. 

When  he  halts  upon  the  44  blasted  heath,”  the  pictured 
representation  of  that  dreary  moorland  consecrated  to  in- 
fernal orgies,  with  not  a tree  or  shrub  to  relieve  the  deso- 
lation, where  murky  fogs  are  ever  settling  upon  pestilential 
pools,  becomes  a reality.  How  strangely  sound  the  fore- 
boding words, 

“ So  fair  and  foul  a day  I have  not  seen.” 

How  prophetic  of  the  coming  evil,  of  the  workings  of  the 
powers  of  darkness,  of  the  weird  sisters,  the  wild  and  secret 
midnight  hags,  who  keep  the  word  of  promise  to  the  ear 
and  break  it  to  the  hope  ! Only  those  who  have  seen 
Booth’s  Macbeth  can  form  the  least  idea  of  the  expression 
of  his  countenance  on  beholding  the  weird  sisters.  There 
is  something  about  it  that  affects  us  with  mingled  admiration 
and  awe.  When  these  foul  anomalies  greet  him  as  44  Thane 
of  Glamis,”  4 4 Thane  of  Cawdor,”  and  as  44  All  hail  Mac- 
beth, that  shall  be  king  hereafter,”  we  feel  that  he  is  indeed 
under  the  influence  of  superhuman  beings,  who  are  to  con- 
trol his  destiny  and  urge  him  on  to  his  fate.  He  seems  to 
believe  all  their  predictions  possible.  He  does  not  listen, 
like  Barquo,  passively,  neither  begging  nor  fearing,  but  his 
whole  being  is  moved.  He  is  lost  in  thought ; wrapped 
withal.  When  they  are  about  to  quit  his  sight,  we  hear  with 
strange  emotion  the  speech : 

“ Stay,  you  imperfect  speakers,  tell  me  more. 

By  Sinel’s  death,  I know  I am  Thane  of  Glamis ; 

But  how  of  Cawdor?  The  Thane  of  Cawdor  lives, 

A prosperous  gentleman  ; and  to  be  king 
Stands  not  within  the  prospect  of  belief, 

No  more  than  to  be  Cawdor.  Say  from  whence 

You  owe  this  strange  intelligence  ? or  why 

Upon  this  blasted  heath  you  stop  our  way 

With  such  prophetic  greetings?  Speak,  I charge  you.” 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  MACBETH. 


159 


But  in  order  to  appreciate  fully  his  acting,  we  must  follow 
Macbeth  to  the  palace  at  Forres,  where  the  things  that  did 
sound  so  fair  have  been  partially  realized,  where  the  King 
of  Scotland  named  him  Thane  of  Cawdor,  and 

“ Two  truths  are  told, 

As  happy  prologues  to  the  swelling  act 
Of  the  imperial  theme,” 

and  behold  him  break  the  intelligence  to  his  wife  of  Dun- 
can’s promise  to  visit  him  at  the  castle  of  Inverness,  that 
pleasant  seat,  where  heaven’s  breath  smells  wooingly,  and 
where  no  jutty  frieze,  buttress,  or  coigne  of  ’vantage  can 
heighten  the  mansion’s  beauty,  for  the  teijiple- haunting 
martlets  have  there  made  their  pendent  beds  and  procreant 
cradles,  but  where  the  direst  cruelty  makes  thick  the  blood, 
and  stops  up  the  access  and  passage  to  remorse. 

Booth,  in  this  scene  with  Lady  Macbeth,  makes  us 
deeply  sensible  of  all  the  hidden  virtues  of  the  character. 
The  murder  is  resolved  upon,  but  we  read  in  his  counte- 
nance waywardness  and  hesitancy.  We  know  intuitively 
that  he  does  not  consent  willingly  to  the  unnatural  deed, 
that  he  is  full  of  the  milk  of  human  kindness,  of  the  noblest 
sentiments  and  feelings,  that  he  wishes  to  be  great,  but 
holily,  and  that  which  he  fears  to  do  he  would  wish  undone. 
Although  his  thoughts  are  upon  the  golden  round,  he  can- 
not look  like  the  innocent  flower  and  be  the  serpent  under  it. 
He  has  won  golden  opinions  from  all  sorts  of  people,  and 
he  feels  that  they  should  be  worn  in  their  newest  gloss. 
The  King  hath  honored  him  of  late,  and  now  visits  him  in 
a double  trust. 

As  a host  and  subject  he  feels  that  he  should  shut  the 
door  against  the  murderer,  and  not  bear  the  knife  himself. 

We  cannot  describe  the  varied  expressions  of  Booth’s 
countenance  when  attempting  to  beat  back  the  wicked  im- 
pulses of  Lady  Macbeth,  or  his  lofty  bearing  toward  her 
when,  overcome  by  her  reasoning,  he  says : 

t 


i6o 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


“ Bring  forth  men-children  only  ! 

For  thy  undaunted  metal  should  compose 
Nothing  but  males.” 

To  have  witnessed  him  in  the  scene  previous  to  the  mur- 
der of  Duncan,  forms,  we  think,  an  epoch  in  one’s  exist- 
ence. In  it  he  seems  to  surpass  himself.  If  he  is  great 
in  any  other  part  of  the  play,  he  is  almost  superhuman  in 
this.  A darkness  more  terrible  than  nature’s  pervades  the 
chamber  through  which  he  moves  to  kill  the  King.  He 
does  his  utmost  to  dispel  the  supernatural  vision,  but  can- 
not. The  silence  is  dreadful.  It  is  too  painful  to  be  borne. 
Each  moment  seems  an  eternity.  We  can  almost  hear  his 
heart-throbs. 

When  the  shadows  proceeding  from  the  heat-oppressed 
brain  are  dispelled,  he  indeed  moves  like  a ghost  with 
“ Tarquin’s  ravishing  strides  toward  his  design.”  But 
when  the  murder  is  committed,  and  he  shows  his  blood- 
stained hands  to  his  guilty  wife,  and  exclaims, 

“This  is  a sorry  sight!” 

we  are  indeed  lost  in  the  character,  and  think  only  of 
the  mighty  genius  that  is  portraying  the  mightiest  effort  of 
Shakspeare. 

When  he  recites  the  following : 

« Methought  I heard  a voice  cry,  4 Sleep  no  more ! 

Macbeth  doth  murder  sleep;  ’ the  innocent  sleep; 

Sleep,  that  knits  up  the  ravel’d  sleave  of  care, 

The  death  of  each  day’s  life,  sore  labor’s  bath, 

Balm  of  hurt  minds,  great  nature’s  second  course, 

Chief  nourisher  in  life’s  feast. 


Still  it  cried  sleep  no  more  to  all  the  house; 

Glamis  hath  murder’d  sleep  ; and  therefore  Cawdor 
Shall  sleep  no  more;  Macbeth  shall  sleep  no  more  ” — 

we  feel  indeed  that  the  author’s  genius  has  here  taken  its 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  MACBETH.  l6l 

full  swing,  and  “trod  upon  the  farthest  bounds  of  nature 
and  passion.”  Eut  we  do  not  feel  all  the  terrible  despera- 
tion of  him  who  has  given  his  eternal  jewel  to  the  common 
enemy,  of  man,  until  the  actor  calls  fate  into  the  list  to 
champion  him  to  the  very  utterance. 

What  an  infinite  variety  of  contrasts  he  reveals  to  us  in 
the  banquet  scene  ! Would  that  we  could  describe  his  im- 
perial look,  his  smooth  dissimulation  in  welcoming  the 
guests,  his  consciousness  of  murder,  and  his  unearthly  hor- 
ror on  seeing  the  table  full  and  his  own  chair  occupied  by 
him  whose  presence  he  had  just  affected  to  desire. 

But  when  he  cries  out,  with  that  wonderful  and  passion- 
ate intonation  peculiarly  his  own  — 

“ Thou  canst  not  say  I did  it!  never  shake 
Thy  gory  locks  at  me. 


Pr’ythee,  see  there  ! behold  ! look  ! lo  ! how  say  you  ? — 
Why,  what  care  I?  If  thou  caiTst  nod,  speak  too  — 

If  charnel-houses  and  our  graves  must  send 
Those  that  we  bury  back,  our  monuments 
Shall  be  the  maws  of  kites. 

Blood  hath  been  shed  ere  now  i’  the  olden  time ; 

Ere  human  statute  purged  the  gentle  weal ; 

Ay,  and  since  too,  murders  have  been  perform’d 
Too  terrible  for  the  ear : the  time  has  been 
That  when  the  brains  were  out  the  man  would  die, 

And  there  an  end : but  now,  they  rise  again 
With  twenty  mortal  murders  on  their  crowns 
And  push  us  from  our  stools.  This  is  more  strange 
Than  such  a murder  is. 


Avaunt ! and  quit  my  sight ! Let  the  earth  hide  thee  ! 

Thy  bones  are  marrowless  ; thy  blood  is  cold; 

Thou  hast  no  speculation  in  those  eyes 
Which  thou  dost  glare  with,” — 

we  behold  the  sublimest  description  of  impassioned  terror. 

14* 


162 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


It  is  well  that  the  action  of  this  play  is  so  violent  and  the 
scenes  so  wonderfully  varied,  or  else  we  should  go  mad  with 
horror.  The  incidents  are  crowded  together  in  rapid  suc- 
cession, and  each  rivals  the  other  in  magnitude  and  power. 
We  are  hurled  hither  and  thither  without  guide  or  compass, 
through  guilt  and  crime,  darkness  and  despair.  We  are 
swayed  to  and  fro  as  if  by  the  power  of  fate.  The  central 
figure  in  this  dense  mass  of  chaotic  confusion  is  Macbeth; 
around  him  every  other  interest  must  bend  and  break.  He 
resolved  to  seek  again  the  weird  sisters,  and  to  know  the 
worse  by  the  worst  means ; and  with  him  we,  too,  long  for 
their  presence,  for  even  the  thoughts  of  their  vile  incanta- 
tions, the  grotesque  strangeness  of  their  charms — the 
grease  from  a murderer’s  gibbet,  the  finger  of  a baby 
strangled  in  its  birth,  the  fillet  of  a fenny  snake,  the  eye  of 
a newt  and  the  toe  of  a frog,  the  gall  of  a goat  and  the 
liver  of  a Jew,  the  blood  of  a baboon  and  the  sweltering 
venom  of  other  hideous  ingredients  — afford  us  a brief 
respite  from  the  sufferings  of  such  a conscience  as  Booth 
lays  open  to  us. 

In  that  part  of  the  play  where  Macbeth  grows  more  and 
more  desperate,  battling  with  fate,  and  even  the  season  of 
all  nature’s  sleep  can  bring  no  rest  to  his  weary  soul,  it  is, 
indeed,  melancholy  in  the  extreme  to  behold  the  breathing 
impersonation  of  this  gallant  soldier,  this  wise  leader,  whose 
ambition  was  once  guided  and  restrained  by  an  instructed 
conscience,  subjected  to  such  vehement  and  tumultuous 
passions,  and  cut  off  from  all  hope  and  consolation,  save 
such  as  he  may  derive  from  the  double-meaning  promises 
of  the  juggling  fiends  who  are  urging  him  on  to  destruction. 
The  suffering  of  Vathek  in  the  Hall  of  Ebbs,  under  the 
cabalistic  influence  of  the  malignant  giaour,  forms  scarcely 
a parallel.  When  there  is  nothing  left  for  Macbeth  save 
to  abandon  himself  wholly  to  the  power  of  the  weird  sisters, 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  MACBETH.  163 

even  though  on  horror’s  head  horrors  accumulate,  we  be- 
hold in  the  impersonation  the  loftiest  energy  and  courage. 
He  proudly  descends  the  rugged  steps  that  lead  to  the 
gloomy  recesses  of  the  cave,  where  the  midnight  hags  are 
practising  their  incantations  around  a filthily  seething  cal- 
dron. When  he  summons  the  spirits  that  know  all  mortal 
consequence  to  answer  him  “if  Banquo’s  issue  shall  ever 
reign  in  the  kingdom,”  Booth’s  acting  reaches  a degree 
of  sublimity  which  can  only  be  described  as  something 
above  nature.  When  the  shadows  of  eight  kings  pass  before 
him,  all  like  the  spirit  of  Banquo,  the  prolonged  and  ringing 
intonations  of  his  voice  will  be  remembered  for  a lifetime, 
when  he  says : 

“ What ! will  the  line  stretch  out  to  the  crack  of  doom  ? 
Another  yet?  A seventh?  I’ll  see  no  more: 

And  yet  the  eighth  appears,  who  bears  a glass 
Which  shows  me  many  more,  and  some  I see 
That  twofold  balls  and  treble  sceptres  carry. 

Horrible  sight!  — Now  I see  ’t is  true, 

For  the  blood-boltered  Banquo  smiles  upon  me, 

And  points  at  them  for  his.” 

It  is  useless  to  multiply  instances  of  his  eloquent  and 
masterly  renditions  of  the  text.  What  we  most  admire  in 
him  is  that  he  makes  the  meaning  of  the  author  perfectly 
clear  to  us.  What  a singular  anomaly  of  consistent  incon- 
sistencies he  reveals  in  the  character.  He  is  sensible  to 
pity,  and  is  cruel  and  treacherous ; he  is  kind  and  generous, 
and  murders  innocence  and  virtue.  His  imagination  is 
lofty,  and  his  energy  is  equal  to  his  imagination,  and  his 
heroism  is  greater  than  both.  His  hatred  is  severe  beyond 
measure,  and  his  envy  is  intolerable ; but  his  love  of  glory 
is  unsurpassed,  and  ever  throws  a resplendent  light  around 
his  vices  and  his  crimes.  All  his  purposes  are  broken  and 
disjointed.  Hope  alternates  with  despair,  and  there  is 


164 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


ever  an  appalling  and  a desperate  struggle  for  the  mas- 
tery. 

One  of  the  finest  scenes  in  the  play  is  where  the  death  of 
Lady  Macbeth  is  announced. 

The  recollection  of  her  delicate  and  unremitting  atten- 
tion to  his  conscience-stricken  soul,  the  complacency  with 
which  she  listened  to  his  tempestuous  wailings,  without  so 
much  as  the  faintest  murmur  of  her  own  sufferings,  crowd 
upon  him,  and  sicken  his  soul  to  the  last  faint  echoes  of 
moral  death.  He  mourns  her  loss  in  all  the  terrible  bitter- 
ness of  his  soul.  Booth’s  recitation  of  the  following  beg- 
gars description  : 

“ She  should  have  died  hereafter ; 

There  would  have  been  a time  for  such  a word. 
To-morrow,  and  to-morrow,  and  to-morrow 
Creeps  in  this  petty  pace  from  day  to  day, 

To  the  last  syllable  of  recorded  time ; 

And  all  our  yesterdays  have  lighted  fools 
The  way  to  dusty  death.  Out,  out,  brief  candle ! 

Life  ’s  but  a waking  shadow ; a poor  player, 

That  struts  and  frets  his  hour  upon  the  stage, 

And  then  is  heard  no  more;  it  is  a tale 
Told  by  an  idiot,  full  of  sound  and  fury, 

Signifying  nothing.” 

We  know  full  well  that  Lady  Macbeth  is  not  “a  mere 
female  fury,”  though  we  both  hate  and  fear  her.  She  has 
been  compared  to  Medea  and  to  Clytemnestra,  but  she  is 
infinitely  more  terrible  than  either  of  them,  because  she  has 
more  intellect,  more  passion,  and  more  refinement.  She  is 
free  from  selfishness,  and  has  no  petty  vices,  no  low  and 
vulgar  passions,,  no  indelicacy  or  gross  licentiousness  of 
character.  She  sacrificed  every  womanly  feeling  for  the 
aggrandizement  of  her  husband.  If  she  longed  for  the 
crown  and  sceptre,  it  was  only  that  she  might  share  them 
with  him,  “to  give  all  their  days  and  nights  solely  sovereign 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  MACBETH.  165 

sway  and  masterdom."  Great  as  was  her  crime,  we  feel 
that  others  have  been  more  debasing,  for,  judge  her  as  we 
may,  there  is  something  about  her  that  must  forever  be  as- 
sociated with  her  sex  and  with  humanity.* 

Perhaps,  with  the  single  exception  of  the  combat  scene, 
Booth  displays  more  impassioned  energy,  more  varied  and 
conflicting  emotions  of  the  soul  than  in  any  other  part  of 
the  play,  when  he  hears  that  Birnam  wood  is  moving  to 
Dunsinane,  and  says : 

“ If  thou  speak’st  false, 

Upon  the  nexi  tree  shalt  thou  hang  alive 
Till  famine  cling  thee ; if  thy  speech  be  sooth, 

I care  not  if  thou  dost  for  me  as  much. 

I pull  in  resolution,  and  begin 
To  doubt  the  equivocation  of  the  fiend 
That  lies  like  truth : ‘ Fear  not  till  Birnam  wood 
Do  come  to  Dunsinane.’  And  now  a wood 
Comes  toward  Dunsinane.  Arm ! arm ! and  out ! 

If  this,  which  he  avouches,  does  appear, 

There  is  nor  flying  hence,  nor  tarrying  here. 

I ’gin  to  be  a-weary  of  the  sun, 

And  wish  th’  estate  of  the  world  were  now  undone. 

Ring  the  alarum  bell ! Blow,  wind!  come,  wrack! 

At  least  we  ’ll  die  with  harness  on  our  back!  ” 

The  combat  scene  is  indescribable.  We  behold  indeed 
an  awful  grandeur  in  the  conclusive  throes  and  dying  ago- 
nies of  “valor's  minion,"  of  him  who  threw  before  his 
body  his  warlike  shield,  and  would  try  the  last,  though 

* This  view  of  Lady  Macbeth  is  somewhat  in  accordance  with  Mrs. 
Siddons’s  idea  of  the  character.  Doran,  in  his  “ Annals  of  the  Stage,” 
says  that  she  imagined  the  heroine  of  this  most  tragic  of  tragedies  to 
be  a delicate  blonde,  who  ruled  by  her  intellect,  and  subdued  by  her 
beauty.  A woman  prompt  for  wickedness,  but  swiftly  possessed  by 
remorse  — one  who  is  horror-stricken  for  herself  and  for  the  precious 
husband,  who,  more  robust  and  less  sensitive,  plunges  deeper  into 
crime,  and  is  less  moved  by  any  sense  of  compassion  or  sorrow. 


1 66 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


“Birnam  wood  be  come  to  Dunsinane,”  and  being  opposed 
by  “none  of  woman  born.” 

But  we  would  suppress  the  shouts  of  the  victorious  Scots 
over  the  fallen  hero,  for  fate  and  metaphysical  aid  con- 
spired against  him. 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  “HAMLET. 


IN  discussing,  some  years  ago,  with  a friend,  the  merits 
of  Edwin  Booth’s  performance  of  Hamlet,  he  urged 
as  an  objectionable  feature  in  Booth’s  delineation  of  the 
character  that  he  did  his  utmost  to  convey  th£  impression 
that  Hamlet’s  madness  was  not  real,  but  only  feigned.  My 
friend  argued  that  there  was  nothing  in  the  play  to  warrant 
such  a conclusion.  He  said  it  was  certainly  Shakspeare’s 
intention  to  define  clearly  and  unmistakably  one  of  the  most 
palpable,  as  well  as  one  of  the  most  interesting  phases  of 
insanity,  and  that  we  could  not  assign  any  other  reason  than 
madness  for  his  wild  and  irregular  disposition,  and  point- 
less and  purposeless  conduct. 

I attempted  to  refute  this  theory  by  suggesting  that  any 
refined  and  cultivated  nature  would  have  acted  just  as  Ham- 
let did,  if  surrounded  by  the  same  circumstances.  I said 
that,  in  order  to  understand  fully  the  secret  workings  of 
Hamlet’s  conscience,  we  must  look  upon  him  as  a being 
compounded,  like  other  men,  with  a goodly  share  of  both 
the  faults  and  virtues  of  humanity,  and  that  we  must  re- 
member the  horror  of  his  situation,  the  supernatural  visita- 
tion of  his  father’s  spirit  in  arms,  and  the  awful  command 
it  gave  him  “not  to  let  the  royal  bed  of  Denmark  be  a 
couch  for  luxury  and  damned  incest.”  These  suggestions 
were  met  by  a eulogy  upon  the  character  of  Ophelia.  She 

ib7 


l68  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

was  described  as  the  most  perfect  incarnation  of  virtue,  of 
gentleness,  and  innocence.  She  was  compared  “to  the 
rose  of  May  — O flower  too  soon  faded  ! ’ ’ — to  the  summer 
cloud,  the  snowflake,  the  voice  of  silvery  fountains,  the 
charm  of  earliest  birds,  and  to  all  that  is  lovely  and  lovable 
in  the  worlds  of  reality  and  imagination. 

Being  unable  to  recall  any  considerable  portion  of  the 
text  by  which  I hoped  to  sustain  the  position  that  Hamlet’s 
madness  was  assumed,  I was  at  length  silenced  with  the  ex- 
clamation that  no  one  but  a brute  or  a madman  “loosed 
out  of  hell”  could  outrage  the  exquisite  sensibilities  of  a 
woman  constituted  like  Ophelia,  by  ordering  her  to  a nun- 
nery, asking  her  if  she  would  be  a breeder  of  sinners,  and 
saying,  “ God  hath  given  you  one  face,  and  you  give  your- 
selves another;  you  jig,  you  amble,  and  you  lisp,  and  nick- 
name God’s  creatures,  and  make  your  wantonness  your 
ignorance.” 

I am  free  to  confess  that  I was  so  impressed  with  this  con- 
versation that  I determined  immediately  to  study  the  play 
with  the  greatest  care,  and  to  read  everything  that  I could 
procure  in  relation  to  it,  with  a view  of  settling  definitely 
and  forever,  in  my  mind,  this  perplexing  feature  in  the 
character  of  this  darling  of  the  English  stage — this  prince, 
courtier,  scholar,  and  gentleman,  whose  subtle  arguments 
and  philosophical  meditations  penetrate  into  the  profound- 
est  recesses  of  the  soul.  My  study  and  researches  have  been 
rewarded  with  the  most  fixed  and  settled  convictions  that 
Hamlet  was  not  mad,  neither  wholly  nor  partially,  and 
that  Shakspeare  never  intended  to  convey  the  idea  of 
madness  any  further  than  to  surround  the  play  with  an  air 
of  mystery  for  the  purpose  of  heightening  its  beauty  and 
sublimity. 

This  purpose  is,  I think,  apparent  from  the  gloomy  gran- 
deur that  pervades  the  tragedy  from  the  beginning  to  the 
close.  The  striking  dramatic  effect  of  the  opening  scene  — 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  HAMLET.  169 

the  dark  watch  of  the  sentinel  upon  the  lonely  platform  be- 
fore the  castle  of  Elsinore  — the  clock  striking  one,  and 
not  a mouse  stirring  — the  sentinel  sick  at  heart  - — the  awful 
apparition  revisiting  the  glimpses  of  the  moon,  making 
night  hideous  — all  serve  to  fill  the  mind  with  forebodings 
of  evil,  and  to  present  mystery  upon  mystery.  Indeed, 
Shakspeare  seems  to  have  done  his  utmost  to  remove  from 
us  as  far  as  possible  the  keynote  of  the  play.  In  the  later 
edition  of  Hamlet  he  has  evidently  altered  every  passage 
that  does  not  invite  study  and  thought.  In  the  earliest 
edition,  that  of  1603,  he  made  the  description  of  Hamlet’s 
madness  much  stronger  than  he  did  in  the  amended  copy. 
The  edition  of  1608  was  doubtless  an  imperfect  copy  of  the 
first  conception  of  the  poet.  The  later  edition  was  such 
an  improvement  on  the  first  that  the  date  of  it  has  generally 
been  regarded  as  the  period  that  marks  the  birth  of  that 
thoughtful  philosophy  so  wonderfully  portrayed  in  all  the 
carefully  elaborated  works  of  the  author. 

In  the  first  copy,  the  King  speaks  of  Hamlet  as  having 
“ lost  the  very  heart  of  all  his  sense ; ” while  in  the  amended 
one  he  speaks  of  him  simply  as  being  “ put  from  the  un- 
derstanding of  himself.” 

In  the  first  copy,  Polonius  speaks  of  his  madness  chang- 
ing by  continuance  “into  this  frenzy  which  now  possesses 
him.”  In  the  revised  copy  we  have  “a  fast,  a watch,  a 
weakness,  a lightness,  and  a madness.” 

Charles  Knight,  one  of  the  most  indefatigable  of  Shak- 
spearian  scholars,  remarks  that  the  reason  of  this  change  is 
that  “ Shakspeare  did  not,  either  in  his  first  sketch  or  his 
amended  copy,  intend  his  audience  to  believe  that  Hamlet 
was  essentially  mad,  and  he  removed,  therefore,  the  strong 
expressions  which  might  encourage  that  belief.” 

Dr.  Johnson  thought  Hamlet’s  madness  feigned,  but  was 
silly  enough  to  add  that  it  “excited  much  mirth.” 

15 


170  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

Coleridge,  who  has,  perhaps,  shown  a more  critical  appre- 
ciation of  Hamlet  than  any  of  the  other  modern  Shakspear- 
ian  scholars,  (unless,  indeed,  we  except  some  of  the  German 
critics,  Lessing  and  Schlegel  for  instance,)  takes  the  posi- 
tion that  Hamlet’s  wildness  is  but  half  false,  that  he  plays 
that  subtle  trick  of  pretending  to  act  only  when  he  is  very 
near  really  being  what  he  acts.  Coleridge,  however,  rec- 
onciles Hamlet’s  sanity  in  the  scene  with  Ophelia  on  the 
ground  that  “the  Prince  perceived,  from  the  strange  and 
forced  manner  of  Ophelia,  that  the  sweet  girl  was  not  act- 
ing a part  of  her  own,  but  was  a decoy,  and  his  after 
speeches  were  not  so  much  directed  to  her  as  to  the  spies 
and  listeners.” 

The  idea  that  Hamlet’s  wildness  is  but  half  false  doubt- 
less formed  the  groundwork  for  the  beautiful  and  ingeni- 
ous theory  of  Henry  Hudson,  viz.,  that  “Hamlet’s  mad- 
ness is  neither  real  nor  affected,  but  is  a sort  of  natural  and 
spontaneous  imitation  of  madness;  the  triumph  of  his 
reason  over  passion  naturally  expressing  itself  in  the  tokens 
of  insanity,  just  as  the  agonies  of  despair  naturally  vent 
themselves  in  flashes  of  mirth.” 

Dr.  John  Connoly,  in  a little  work  entitled  “A  Study  of 
Hamlet,”  sustains  the  theory  of  Hamlet’s  madness  with 
considerable  zeal,  on  the  ground  that  the  Prince  could  not 
have  misled  Ophelia,  who  was  accustomed  to  read  his 
inmost  thoughts.  Dr.  Kellogg,  a physician  to  the  State 
Lunatic  Asylum  of  New  York,  takes  the  same  position,  and 
says,  “ Ophelia  was  no  incompetent  judge.  The  lynx-eyed 
vigilance  of  woman’s  love  could  not  be  deceived,  and  she 
has  read  correctly  the  riddle  which  has  so  perplexed  all 
Shakspearian  critics.  ’ ’ 

Dr.  Ray,  in  his  work  on  Medical  Jurisprudence,  also 
maintains  the  same  view ; but  surely  these  physicians,  who 
claim  to  have  given  so  much  study  to  the  pathology  of  the 
mind,  ought  not  to  forget  that  chronic  mania  is  very  easily 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  HAMLET.  1/ 1 

feigned,  and  often  feigned  successfully.  Dr.  Bucknill  re- 
lates an  instance  of  a gentleman  who  kept  up  the  practice 
of  insanity  for  more  than  two  years  before  he  broke  down 
in  his  part,  and  of  another  who  kept  up  the  practice  much 
longer.  I have  myself  observed  cases  where  the  ablest 
physicians  were  unable  to  detect  the  imposture.  Indeed, 
the  task  is  often  as  difficult  as  the  detection  of  partial 
idealization  insanity,  where  the  patient  is  suspicious  and 
tries  to  hide  it. 

The  theory  of  Hamlet’s  madness  is  very  popular  with 
the  French  school  of  critics.  M.  Villemain,  for  instance, 
in  a late  work,  has  quite  settled  it  to  his  entire  satisfaction  ; 
but  of  all  critics  of  Shaicspeare,  the  French  have  shown 
themselves  the  most  incompetent  and  unappreciative.  Those 
who  have  undertaken  to  translate  his  plays  into  French, 
without  a single  exception,  performed  their  work  most 
abominably.  The  story  of  the  Frenchman  translating  the 
phrase  “ Frailty,  thy  name  is  woman,”  into  “ Frailty  is  the 
name  of  a woman,”  is  scarcely  an  exaggeration. 

It  has  been  said  that  Hamlet’s  conduct  cannot  be 
accounted  for  solely  on  the  ground  of  the  absorbing  and 
overwhelming  influence  of  the  one  paramount  thought 
which  renders  hopeless  and  worthless  all  that  formerly 
occupied  his  affections,  from  the  fact  that  it  is  not  directly 
supported  by  the  text,  though  worthy  of  the  feeling  and 
conception  of  the  poet.  Whether  worthy  or  not,  I can  but 
believe  that  Hamlet’s  purpose  of  avenging  his  father’s  mur- 
der is  the  chief  business  of  the  play.  It  seems  to  have  occu- 
pied Hamlet’s  thoughts  to  the  exclusion  of  everything  else, 
“all  trivial  fond  records,  all  saws  of  books,  all  forms,  all 
pressures  past.  ’ ’ He  considers  nothing  else  half  so  deeply. 
Because  he  should  have  doubts  and  misgivings,  and  ask  if 
the  ghost  is  an  honest  ghost,  and  be  deeply  affected  at 
Ophelia’s  too  confiding  obedience  to  her  father,  there  is  no 
reason  to  believe  that  there  is  anything  unnatural  or  incon- 


172 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


sistent  in  his  conduct.  The  play  would  not  be  what  it  is 
if  Hamlet  had  but  one  thought  and  object.  The  truth  is, 
Shakspeare  did  not  intend  to  portray  Hamlet  unlike  the 
rest  of  the  human  family,  but  to  give  us  a kind  of  idealized 
picture  of  humanity;  not  the  portrait  of  an  individual 
character,  but  of  a universal  nature  — a nature  that  pervades 
all  classes  of  society ; and  this  alone  is  the  cause  of  a want 
of  unanimity  of  opinion  concerning  the  purpose  of  the 
author.  If  there  were  no  complexity  about  the  play  we 
could  see  through  it  at  a glance,  and  would  cast  it  aside, 
caring  nothing  whatever  about  it. 

It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say  anything  in  palliation  of 
Hamlet’s  treatment  of  Ophelia;  but  those  who  have  had 
the  good  fortune  to  witness  Booth’s  personation  of  Hamlet 
cannot  fail  to  have  observed  the  painful  expression  of  his 
countenance  when  upbraiding  her.  With  brow  slightly 
knit  and  the  lower  lip  tightly  compressed,  and  “pale  as 
his  shirt,”  he  endeavors,  almost  as  if  by  a superhuman 
effort,  to  conceal  the  pain  it  gives  him ; but  when  his  face 
is  turned  from  her,  the  indescribable  agony  of  his  soul  is 
made  wonderfully  apparent  in  the  fearful  writhings  of  his 
countenance.  We  almost  hear 

“A  sigh  so  piteous  and  profound 
That  it  did  seem  to  shatter  all  his  bulk, 

And  end  his  being.” 

If  Hamlet  wished  the  command  of  the  ghost  to  live 
within  the  book  and  volume  of  his  brain,  and  to  avenge 

“ Such  an  act, 

That  blurs  the  grace  and  blush  of  modesty ; 

Calls  virtue  hypocrite ; takes  off  the  rose 
From  the  fair  forehead  of  innocent  love, 

And  sets  a blister  there;  makes  marriage  vows 
As  false  as  dicers’  oaths,” 

surely  Ophelia  should  be  the  last  person  in  the  world  to 


EDWIN  BOOTH’S  HAMLET. 


173 


possess-  a knowledge  of  the  means  by  which  he  hoped  to 
accomplish  this  end.  He  could  not  help  “ being  cruel  in 
order  to  be  kind.”  Moreover,  Hamlet’s  harshness  was 
aimed  not  so  much  at  her  as  at  her  sex.  The  plague  he 
gave  her  as  a dowry,  “ Be  thou  as  chaste  as  ice,  as  pure  as 
snow,  thou  canst  not  escape  calumny,”  is  the  severest 
speech  he  makes  directly  to  her. 

When  Hamlet  first  conceived  the  idea  of  putting  an 
antic  disposition  on,  his  next  thought  was  how  to  conceal 
it,  and  for  this  reason  he  treats  the  ghost  with  pretended 
levity,  in  such  speeches  as 

“ Ha,  ha,  boy ! say’st  thou  so  ? art  thou  there,  true-penny  ? 
Come  on  — you  hear  this  fellow  in  the  cellarage  — 

Consent  to  swear ! ” 

And  — 

“Well  said,  old  mole!  can'st  work  in  the  earth  so  fast? 

A worthy  pioneer.” 

Hence  his  swearing  Horatio  and  Marcellus  to  secrecy : 

“And  therefore  as  a stranger  give  it  welcome. 

There  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 

Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy.  But,  come  : — 
Here,  as  before,  so  help  you  mercy, 

How  strange  or  odd  soe’er  I bear  myself, 

As  I perchance  hereafter  shall  think  meet 
To  put  an  antic  disposition  on  — 

That  you  at  such  times,  seeing  me,  never  shall, 

With  arms  encumber’d  thus,  or  this  head-shake, 

Or,  by  pronouncing  of  some  doubtful  phrase, 

As  * Well,  well,  we  know  ’ — or  6 We  could  an  if  we  would  ’ — - 
Or  * If  we  list  to  speak  ’ — or  6 There  be  an  if  they  might  ’ — 

Or  such  ambiguous  giving  out,  to  note 
That  you  know  aught  of  me  — this  not  to  do, 

So  grace  and  mercy  at  your  most  need  help  you. 

Swear ! ” 

15* 


174 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Hamlet,  the  reader  will  observe,  evades  the  curiosity  of 
his  friends  as  best  he  can.  The  speech,  “ There  's  ne'er  a 
villain  in  all  Denmark,"  is  followed  by  “But  he's  an 
arrant  knave."  Why  should  he  trust  them?  His  confi- 
dence in  all  earthly  things  was  shaken.  He  had  heard  “the 
secrets  of  the  prison-house,"  “the  eternal  blazon  that  must 
not  be  to  ears  of  flesh  and  blood."  It  was  fitting  that  he 
should  implore  silence  by  saying  “And  still  your  fingers  on 
your  lips,"  and  beg  them  to  overmaster  their  curiosity  as 
best  they  could,  and  shake  hands  and  part  “without  more 
circumstance  at  all."  “The  time  was  out  of  joint,"  and 
he  alone  was  called  upon  “to  set  it  right." 

But,  alas ! the  tragical  end  that  awaited  him,  and  all  its 
accompanying  horrors.  The  meditative  and  thoughtful  phi- 
losophy of  his  disposition  unfitted  him  for  the  awful  duty 
enjoined  upon  him  by  the  voice  from  the  unseen  world. 
It  was  an  act  of  vengeance,  against  the  laws  of  the  land,  to 
be  justified  only  in  the  court  of  his  own  conscience,  and  by 
the  philosophy,  “There's  nothing  good  or  bad,  but  think- 
ing makes  it  so; " but  he  unhesitatingly  and  unshrinkingly 
devoted  his  life  to  the  sacrifice. 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY. 


1 75 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY. 


Pol.  What  do  you  read,  my  lord? 
Ham.  Words,  words,  words. 


HE  rules  which  form  the  grammar  of  any  particular 


language,  so  far  as  they  differ  from  those  of  any  other, 
are  occasioned  by  accidental  and  temporary  circumstances. 
Probably  for  this  reason  these  rules  have  been  treated  by 
our  ablest  scholars  and  authors  under  the  head  of  the  his- 
tory of  language  rather  than  the  science  of  language.  Sir 
John  Stoddard  says  that,  in  order  to  understand  the  Eng- 
lish grammar,  we  must  have  a knowledge  of  universal  gram- 
mar as  well  as  of  the  history  of  language.  He  says  that 
universal  grammar  disregards  that  which  is  peculiar  to  the 
speech  of  this  or  that  individual  tribe,  race,  or  nation,  and 
considers  only  what  is  common  to  man  in  all  ages  and 
countries,  both  as  to  an  arrangement  of  his  thoughts  and 
feelings  with  a view  to  their  communication  to  others,  and 
also  as  to  the  bodily  organs  or  instruments  with  which  the 
Almighty  has  furnished  us  for  the  purpose  of  such  commu- 
nications. 

His  work  on  “Glossology,  or  the  Historical  Relations  of 
Languages,”  dwells  at  length  on  the  possibility  and  proba- 
bility of  forming  from  the  existing  languages  a universal 
language.  His  investigations  into  the  science  and  philos- 
ophy of  language  are  learned  and  varied  in  the  extreme. 
They  are,  however,  of  too  speculative  a character  to  be  of 


17?  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

much  assistance  to  those  who  wish  to  understand  the  prac- 
tical principles  of  philology. 

The  English  language  is  wholly  free  from  that  labyrinth 
of  cases,  moods,  and  tenses  common  to  the  Greek  and 
Latin. 

There  are  but  few  terminations  in  its  verbs,  and  none  at 
all  in  its  adjectives,  save  for  the  expression  of  the  degrees 
of  comparison.  There  is  no  language  better  suited  for  the 
formation  of  derivatives  from  their  roots.  It  has  none  of 
the  untranslatable  idiomatic  expressions  of  the  French,  the 
German,  Spanish,  and  the  Italian. 

But,  with  all  its  excellences  and  wonderful  beauties,  it  is 
without  a pronoun  of  the  third  person  singular  applicable 
to  either  sex.  We  experience  the  greatest  difficulty  if  we 
wish  to  refer  to  a person  without  revealing  the  sex  of  that 
person.  For  example,  take  the  following  sentence  : ‘ ‘ The 
person  who  called  on  me  yesterday  said  that  ( ) regretted 
calling,”  etc.  Now,  if  we  use  either  of  the  personal  pro- 
nouns, he  or  she , we  make  known  exactly  what  we  wish  to 
conceal.  There  is  no  way  of  avoiding  this  difficulty  ex- 
cept by  repeating  the  noun  or  by  using  the  masculine 
and  feminine  pronouns.  Take,  for  example,  the  following 
clumsy  sentence : 

“ If  any  man  or  woman  shall  violate  his  or  her  pledge,  he  or  she  shall 
pay  a fine.” 

One  of  the  chiefest  beauties  of  our  language  is  its  dis- 
tinction of  gender,  or  the  modification  of  its  nouns  to 
denote  the  distinction  of  sex  through  gender. 

The  French,  for  instance,  have  no  neuter  gender.  Their 
two  articles,  masculine  le , and  feminine  la , o$e  or  the  other, 
is  prefixed  to  their  substantive  nouns  to  denote  their  gender, 
and  as  a natural  consequence  the  most  perplexing  difficulties 
must  inevitably  follow.  Beau  in  their  language  is  of  the 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY. 


1 79 


masculine  gender,  and  yet  the  fair  sex  are  called  le  bean 
sexe.  Vossius  says  that  gender  is  properly  a distinction  of 
sex,  but  it  is  improperly  attributed  to  those  things  which 
have  not  sex,  and  only  follow  the  nature  of  things  having 
sex  in  so  far  as  the  agreement  of  substantive  with  adjec- 
tive. Sex  is  properly  expressed  in  reference  to  male  and 
female,  as  Pythagoras  and  Theona;  ager,  a field,  therefore, 
is  improperly  called  masculine,  and  herba , an  herb,  is  im- 
properly called  feminine.  But  animal  is  neuter  because 
it  is  construed  neither  way.  It  never  occurred  to  Vossius 
that  all  substantives  could  be  properly  classed  by  gender. 
Harris  says  that  every  substantive  is  male  or  female,  or  both 
male  and  female,  or  neither  one  nor  the  other,  so  that  with 
respect  to  sexes  and  their  negation,  all  substantives  con- 
ceivable are  comprehended  under  this  fourfold  considera- 
tion. 

Harris  failed  to  include  the  common  gender  in  his  classi- 
fication of  substantive  nouns.  Lindley  Murray  says  that 
there  is  no  such  gender,  and  that  the  business  of  parsing 
can  be  done  without  it.  Goold  Brown  agrees  with  Murray, 
and  says  the  term  “common  gender  M is  applicable  to  the 
learned  languages,  but  in  the  English  it  is  plainly  a solecism. 
Noble  Butler  has  completely  overthrown  this  theory.  Ac- 
cording to  Butler,  nouns  which  are  applied  to  living  beings 
without  reference  to  sex  are  of  the  common  gender,  as 
parent,  cousin,  child,  sheep,  friend,  neighbor.  The  term 
common  gender  is  a grammatical  term,  applied  merely  to 
the  words,  and  does  not  imply  any  common  sex. 

We  have  also  what  is  called  the  transfer  of  gender  in  our 
language,  and  by  means  of  it  we  are  enabled  to  distin- 
guish between  prose  and  poetry,  or  between  the  language 
of  reality  and  imagination. 

For  instance,  we  can  give  form,  distinctness,  and  beauty 
to  an  object  by  raising  that  object  to  the  dignity  of  a person. 
There  are  some  very  fine  illustrations  of  what  is  meant  by 


i8o 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


the  transfer  of  gender  in  Milton  and  in  the  Bible,  though 
it  is  well  enough  to  remark  that  the  neuter  possessive  pro- 
nouns were  then  not  generally  in  use. 

If  gender  were  permanently  fixed  in  our  language,  the 
following  description  of  thunder,  in  Milton,  would  lose  half 
its  beauty  : 

“ The  thunder, 

Wing’d  with  red  lightning  and  impetuous  rage, 

Perhaps  has  spent  his  shafts.” 

We  give  below  a quotation  from  Milton  in  which  gender 
is  applied  with  singular  force  and  beauty  to  the  idea  of 
form : 

“ His  form  had  yet  not  lost 
All  her  original  brightness,  nor  appear’d 
Less  than  archangel  ruin’d.” 

But  perhaps  the  finest  example  that  can  be  given  of  the 
transfer  of  gender  occurs  in  a description  of  night  in  the 
Book  of  Wisdom  : 

“ While  all  things  were  in  quiet  silence,  and  that  night 
was  in  the  midst  of  her  swift  course,  Thine  Almighty  word 
leaped  down  from  heaven  out  of  Thy  royal  throne,  like  a 
fierce  man  of  war  into  a land  of  destruction.’ ’ 

There  is  a great  disposition  on  the  part  of  a certain  class 
of  philologists  to  do  away  with  the  use  of  the  words  sung 
and  sprung. 

Richard  Savage  has  been  charged  with  ignorance  for 
using  sprung  and  sung,  instead  of  sprang  and  sang,  in  the 
lines, 

“From  liberty  each  noble  science  sprung  — 

A Bacon  brighten’d  and  a Spenser  sung.” 

But  we  do  not  know  of  any  reason  why  sprung  and  sung 
should  not  be  considered  correct  words.  Worcester,  in  his 
large  lexicon,  says  that  sprang  and  sang  are  obsolescent, 
and  Webster  admits  them  partially  so. 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY.  1 8 I 

Dr.  Bullion,  Hallock,  Pinneo,  Brown,  Kirkham,  and, 
best  of  all,  Noble  Butler,  prefer  sung  and  sprung  to  sang 
and  sprang.  In  Butler’s  list  of  irregular  verbs  in  which 
the  past  tense'  and  the  auxiliary  perfect  participle  are  alike 
in  form,  we  have  : Imperfect,  or  present  infinitive,  sing ; 

past  indicative,  sung ; auxiliary  perfect  participle,  sung. 
The  word  sang  is  placed  at  the  right  of  the  column  of  past 
indicatives  to  indicate  that  sung  is  the  choicest  word,  and 
the  one  most  in  use.  Shone  is  thus  placed  before  shined. 

We  have  in  the  same  list : Imperfect,  or  present  infinite, 
spring ; past,  sprung ; auxiliary  perfect,  sprung.  So  like- 
wise string,  strung,  strung,  and  swing,  swung,  swung. 

Some  grammarians  prefer  drank  to  drunk  for  the  par- 
ticiple of  drink . At  one  time  drank  was  used  occasionally 
by  good  writers,  but  according  to  Mr.  Butler  it  is  now  only 
employed  by  writers  of  an  inferior  class.  The  best  authors 
say  “ Toasts  ” were  drunk , and  not  “ Toasts  ” were  drank . 
We  have  a correct  use  of  the  word  in  Coleridge’s  lines, 

“ He  on  honey  dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.” 

The  following  examples  have  been  furnished  me  by  Mr. 
Butler  from  the  advanced  proof-sheets  of  his  new  grammar : 

“ Nobody  can  write  the  life  of  a man  but  those  who  have  ate,  and 
drunk , and  lived  in  social  intercourse  with  him.”  — Dr.  Johnson. 

“The  toast  is  drunk  with  a good  deal  of  cheering.”  — Dickens. 

“ Claret  equal  to  the  best  which  is  drunk  in  London.”  — Macaulay. 

“O’Doherty’s  health  being  drunk.”  — Prof.  Wilson. 

“ The  health  of  King  James  was  drunk  with  loud  acclamations.”  — 
Macaulay. 

“He  had  drunk  largely.” — Thackeray . 

“Wine  was  more  generally  drunk  than  now.”  — Hawthorne. 

“ I have  not  drunk  a glass  of  wine  for  twelve  months.”  — Hood. 

16 


I 82 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Probably  enough  examples  have  been  given  to  show  that 
drunk  is  preferred  to  drank  by  our  best  writers. 

Goold  Brown,  Pinneo,  and  some  other  grammarians  set 
down  bear,  to  carry,  and  bear,  to  bring  forth,  as  two  distinct 
verbs,  the  former  with  the  participle  borne,  and  the  latter 
with  the  participle  born.  These  authors  are  supported  in 
their  theory  by  Dr.  Webster,  who  says  that  “a  very  useful 
distinction  is  observed  by  good  authors,  who  in  the  sense 
of  produced  or  brought  forth  write  this  word  born,  but  in  the 
sense  of  carried  write  it  borne." 

It  is  true  enough  that  in  the  sense  of  carried  the  parti- 
ciple is  borne ; but  surely  in  the  sense  of  produced  the  parti- 
ciple is  not  born. 

We  do  not  say  the  tree  has  born  fruit,  but  the  tree  has 
borne  fruit ; nor  that  the  mother  has  born  children,  but  borne 
children.  Born  is  never  used  in  the  active  voice,  and  never 
in  the  passive  when  followed  by  the  preposition  by. 

It  is  somewhat  singular  that  there  should  be  any  trouble 
whatever  about  the  correct  use  of  irregular  verbs,  and  yet 
how  often  the  transitive  verbs  lay , raise,  and  set  are  con- 
founded with  the  intransitive  verbs  lie , rise,  and  sit. 

Set,  set,  set,  and  sit,  sat,  sat,  are  as  simple  as  simplicity 
itself.  We  set  a thing  in  its  place,  and  we  sit  down  when 
we  are  tired.  The  same  simplicity  is  characteristic  of  lay, 
laid,  laid,  and  lie,  lay,  lain ; and  yet  Lord  Byron,  in  one 
of  the  sublimest  passages  in  Childe  Harold,  in  speaking  of 
man  and  the  ocean,  says  : 

“His  steps  are  not  upon  thy  paths  — thy  fields 
Are  not  a spoil  for  him ; — thou  dost  arise 
And  shake  him  from  thee;  the  vile  strength  he  wields 
For  earth’s  destruction  thou  dost  all  despise, 

Spurning  him  from  thy  bosom  to  the  skies, 

And  send’st  him  shivering  in  the  playful  spray, 

And  howling  to  his  gods,  where  haply  lies 
His  petty  hope  in  some  near  port  or  bay, 

And  dashest  him  again  to  earth;  there  let  him  lay.” 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY.  I S3 

Such  errors  as  “he  laid  down,”  for  he  lay  down,  are 
very  common  in  conversation ; but  the  best  plan  we  have 
seen  to  avoid  them  is  given  by  Mr.  Butler.  It  consists 
simply  of  a table  where  the  transitive  verbs  lay  and  set  are 
conjugated  by  the  side  of  the  intransitive  verbs  lie  and  sit. 
This  table  can  be  learned  by  heart  in  a few  moments,  and 
when  once  learned  cannot  easily  be  forgotten. 

A great  many  errors  are  committed,  even  by  experienced 
writers,  in  the  use  of  auxiliary  verbs.  Shall  and  will  and 
should  and  would  are,  perhaps,  more  abused  in  this  way 
than  any  other  words  in  the  language.  Almost  every  day 
we  hear  such  expressions  as  the  following:  “If  we  do  not 
overthrow  the  party  now  in  power  we  will  have  universal 
bankruptcy  and  ruin,,,  instead  of  shall  have,  etc.  Scheie 
De  Vere  says:  “This  double  future  of  the  English,  by 
means  of  two  different  verbs,  is  one  of  the  greatest  beauties 
of  the  language.  Used  with  equal  variety  and  precision, 
its  thoroughly  idiomatic  employment  has  been  gradually 
worked  up  to  such  nicety  of  distinction  and  power  of  ex- 
pression that  it  can  now  be  acquired  only  by  instinct,  and 
is  a sore  puzzle,  if  not  an  insuperable  difficulty  to  all  for- 
eigners. It  must  be  admitted  that  there  is  no  absolute  rule 
given  by  any  grammarian  that  will  apply  to  all  cases  with- 
out leaving  room  for  doubt/’ 

In  general,  Scheie  De  Vere  is  so  correct  in  his  ideas  about 
language,  that  we  are  surprised  at  his  remark  as  to  the  dif- 
ficulty experienced  in  the  use  of  these  words.  The  rules 
regulating  their  use  are,  we  think,  simple  enough.  The 
improper  use  of  these  words  is,  in  most 'cases,  occasioned 
by  carelessness.  Macaulay,  for  instance,  in  his  essay  on  Lord 
Bacon,  says:  “We  have  much  to  say  on  the  subject  of  this 
Life,  and  will  often  find  ourselves  obliged  to  dissent  from 
the  opinions  of  the  biographer.”  It  is  clear  enough  that 
the  writer  intended  to  express  simple  futurity,  and  only 


184 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


represented  himself  as  being  “ obliged  to  dissent/’  without 
thinking  what  he  was  saying. 

The  word  will  expresses  determination.  When  we  say 
“ He  will  do  so  and  so  in  spite  of  opposition,”  we  mean 
that  he  is  determined  to  do  so ; but  when  an  author  is  re- 
viewing a book,  and  says  “We  will  find  ourselves  obliged 
to  dissent,”  he  forgets  that  the  action  is  to  be  performed 
by  himself,  and  that  simple  futurity  should  here  be  ex- 
pressed by  shall , and  not  will . Shall  is  derived  from  the 
Anglo-Saxon  scealan , the  meaning  of  which  is  “to  owe.” 
Chaucer  says,  “By  the  faith  I shall  to  God,”  meaning 
“By  the  faith  I owe  to  God.”  So  in  the  Bible,  “In  the 
day  that  thou  eatest  thereof  thou  shalt  surely  die”  — that 
is,  owest,  art  destined  to  die.  When  we  wish  to  express  the 
obligation  or  necessity  as  arising  from  the  determination  of 
another,  we  say,  “You  shall  write  or  speak.”  We  say,  of 
course,  “I  will  write,”  that  is,  I resolve  that  I will  write, 
when  we  wish  to  express  a resolution  of  the  speaker  in  re- 
gard to  his  own  act.  Shall,  of  course,  is  used  in  reference  to 
the  actions  of  the  second  and  third  persons,  when  the  first 
person  is  represented  as  expressing  the  promise,  as,  I pro- 
mise you  shall  write,  he  shall  write,  etc. 

To  express  simple  futurity,  as  we  have  said,  shall  is  ap- 
plied to  the  acts  of  the  person  who  is  supposing  the  future 
event,  and  will  to  those  of  others,  as,  I shall  win,  you  will 
win,  he  will  win. 

The  cry  of  the  Frenchman  when  drowning,  “I  will 
drown,  nobody  shall  save  me,”  is  one  of  the  best  examples 
ever  given  for  teaching  others  how  to  avoid  the  misuse  of 
these  words.  The  Frenchman  unmistakably  expressed  his 
will , his  determination  to  drown,  and  that  no  one  should 
save  him.  If  he  had  said,  “I  shall  drown,  nobody  will 
save  me,”  his  speech  would  have  implied  no  restriction 
upon  any  one  else,  and  at  the  same  time  expressed  what  he 
meant  to  express,  the  fear  of  drowning  if  some  one  did  not 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY.  1S5 

help  him.  The  same  rules  that  govern  will  and  shall  are 
applicable  to  would  and  should.  For  example:  “He  said 
that  he  would  drown,  and  that  nobody  should  save  him,” 
should  be,  “He  said  that  he  should  drown,  and  that  no- 
body would  save  him.”  “I  would  have  understood  these 
sentences  if  I had  studied  them,”  should  be,  “I  should 
have  understood  these  sentences  if  I had  studied  them.” 
“ I would  be  surprised  to  see  him,”  should  be,  “ I should 
be  surprised  to  see  him.”  The  former  is  incorrect,  be- 
cause the  person  foretells  the  event,  that  is,  what  is  to 
happen. 

Among  the  most  common  blunders  in  conversation  is  the 
use  of  the  adjective  for  the  adverb.  For  instance,  we  often 
hear,  “She  walks  graceful ,”  for  “She  walks  gracefully.” 
The  incorrect  use  of  the  adverb  for  the  adjective  is  even 
more  common,  as  “ She  looks  beautifully,”  for  “ She  looks 
beautiful,”  or  “ I feel  badly,”  meaning  sick  or  unwell,  for 
“I  feel  bad.”  Mr.  Butler,  however,  says  that  bad  is  not 
the  appropriate  adjective  — that  it  is  ambiguous,  to  say  the 
least.  It  is  not  correct  to  say,  “ The  rose  smells  sweetly,” 
that  is,  in  a sweet  manner.  The  rose  does  not  perform  the 
operation  of  smelling.  The  “rose  smells  sweet1'  is  the  proper 
expression,  but  one  would  hardly  think  so  if  we  had  no 
other  usage  than  the  conversation  of  many  who  claim  to  be 
good  talkers.  The  idea  to  be  conveyed  is,  that  the  rose  is 
sweet  to  the  smell.  “ He  arrived  safely  ” for  “He  arrived 
safe  ” is  also  a very  common  error,  and  one  that  should  be 
avoided,  for  it  is  intensely  vulgar.  It  is  not  meant  that  he 
arrived  in  a safe  manner,  but  that  he  was  safe  when  he 
arrived.  There  is  another  rule  regulating  the  use  of  ad- 
verbs which  should  be  observed  very  closely,  and  that  is  to 
place  the  adverbs  as  near  as  possible  to  the  words  which 
they  are  intended  to  modify.  Thus,  in  the  sentence,  “I 
only  saw  Mr.  Wilson,  and  not  Mr.  Dent,”  should  be,  “I 
16* 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


1 36 

saw  only  Mr.  Wilson,  and  not  Mr.  Dent,”  or,  “ I saw  Mr. 
Wilson  only,  and  not  Mr.  Dent.” 

Differ  with  for  differ  from  is  also  a very  common  and  a 
very  coarse  form  of  expression.  The  editor  of  a New- York 
paper  says,  “We  beg  to  differ  with  General  Grant.”  This  is 
equivalent  to  saying  that  he  agrees  with  the  General,  that  is, 
agrees  in  differing  with  him.  The  editor  does  not  differ  with 
him,  but  from  him. 

The  preposition  from  is  often  incorrectly  used  for  the 
preposition  by.  For  example  : “ He  does  not  profit  from 
my  experience,”  instead  of  “ He  does  not  profit  by  my  ex- 
perience.” A preposition  is  intended  to  show  the  relation 
between  a noun  or  pronoun  and  some  other  word.  With 
this  rule  before  us  it  is  easy  enough  to  use  the  proper  pre- 
position. 

A few  good  writers  contend  that  the  phrase  all  of  is  a 
proper  one  in  such  sentences  as  the  following  : “ All  of  these 
things”  for  “All  these  things;”  “ All  of  these  blessings” 
for  “All  these  blessings;”  “All  of  our  rules”  instead  of 
“All  our  rules.” 

The  phrase  “all of”  is  certainly  very  inelegant,  if,  indeed, 
it  is  not  really  a vulgarism.  It  is  not  idiomatic  in  English, 
and  is  seldom  used  by  good  writers.  It  is  never  correctly 
used  except  in  connection  with  some  modifying  pronoun, 
as  “All  of  them,”  “All  of  it.”  How  would  it  look  if 
Shakspeare  had  written  “All  of  the  noble  substance”  in- 
stead of  “All  the  noble  substance  ; ” “Seem  to  me  all  of 
the  uses  of  this  world  ’ ’ instead  of  e 6 Seem  to  me  all  the  uses 
of  this  world;  ” “I  have,  of  late,  but  wherefore  I know  not, 
lost  all  of  my  mirth,”  instead  of  “I  have,  of  late,  but 
wherefore  I know  not,  lost  all  my  mirth”? 

The  word  scholar  is  sometimes  incorrectly  used  for  pupil . 
The  New- York  World , in  a recent  article  on  the  public 
schools,  says,  “ The  scholars  in  the  public  schools  have,”  etc. 

A scholar  is  emphatically  a man  eminent  for  erudition, 


A PHILOLOGICAL  STUDY.  l8/ 

a person  of  high  attainments  in  literature  or  in  science,  while 
a pupil  is  one  who  learns  from  a teacher  or  an  instructor. 

It  is  better  English  to  say  “the  preceding  lines”  than 
“the  above  lines.” 

The  compound  relative  what  should  not  be  used  for  the 
conjunction  that  in  such  sentences  as  “I  do  not  know  but 
what  I will,”  instead  of  “I  do  not  know  but  that  I will.” 

The  objective  case  is  often  used  for  the  nominative,  as, 
“It  is  us,”  instead  of  “It  is  we;  ” and  the  nominative  for 
the  objective,  “If  I was  in  your  place,”  instead  of  “If  I 
were  in  your  place.”  And  yet,  in  spite  of  all  this,  we  have 
writers  upon  the  subject  of  language  telling  us  that  a verb 
does  not  agree  with  its  subject  in  number  and  person;  but 
fortunately  those  who  know  how  to  speak  and  write  the 
English  language  correctly  and  with  propriety  believe  just 
to  the  contrary. 

The  preposition  in  is  never  used  by  good  writers  to  de- 
note entrance,  as  “He  went  in  the  woods,”  instead  of 
“ He  went  into  the  woods.”  Abhorrence  to  is  often  used 
incorrectly  for  abhorrence  of , in  such  sentences  as  “He 
has  a great  abhorrence  to  these  principles,”  instead  of 
“ He  has  a great  abhorrence  of  these  principles.” 

We  cannot  use  the  same  liberty  with  prepositions  that  we 
can  with  pronouns.  Shakspeare’s  line,  in  the  Twelfth 
Night , “ Did  you  never  see  the  picture  of  we  three?  ” gives 
us  some  idea  of  the  liberty  that  can  be  taken  with  the  little 
words  that  stand  instead  of  nouns,  without  making  the  im- 
proper use  of  them  grate  harshly  on  the  ear.  The  use  of 
the  plural  we  for  /,  by  an  editor  or  a reviewer,  when  he 
means  only  himself,  is  another  illustration.  The  use  of 
the  plural  we  for  /,  however,  is  comparatively  of  recent 
date,  and  perhaps  there  should  be  no  serious  objection 
to  it,  for  it  is  nothing  like  as  egotistical  as  the  latter 
form.  A recent  writer  tells  us  that  it  originated  with  King 
John,  who  found  out  the  art  of  multiplying  himself,  whereas 
his  predecessors  had  been  content  with  the  simple  ego.  The 


1 88 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


use  of  we  by  editors,  when  a single  person  is  meant,  is  ex- 
plained on  the  ground  that  the  opinions  expressed  under 
this  form  are  those  of  a class  or  party.  This  expression, 
however,  has  the  same  excuse  as  that  of  you  for  thou . It  is 
republican  in  form  and  respectful  in  every  sense,  and  avoids 
direct  personality. 

But  here  is  a freedom  of  speech  not  so  readily  over- 
looked. For  instance:  Dr.  Webster  contends  that  the 
phrase  you  was  is  correct,  but  few  good  writers  agree  with 
him.  If  you  was  is  correct,  it  would  be  of  little  use  to  argue 
that  a verb  should  agree  with  its  subject  in  number  and 
person. 

Webster  says:  “ The  verb  must  follow  its  nominative. 
If  that  denotes  unity,  so  does  the  verb.”  But  there  is  not 
much  unity  in  a pronoun  of  a second  person  requiring  the 
verb  of  the  third  person. 

Pinneo,  in  his  Grammar,  says:  “In  common  conversa- 
tion, and  by  the  practical  class,  was  in  the  singular  is  almost 
always  used,  and  among  the  more  highly  educated  the 
tendency  is  increasing  daily.”  Mr.  Butler,  in  commenting 
upon  this,  observes:  “If  any  unfortunate  pupil  should  be 
led  by  this  statement  to  the  use  of  you  was , he  would  soon 
find  himself  suffering  the  penalty  of  misplaced  confidence.” 
Some  persons  seem  to  have  great  difficulty  in  seeing  the 
difference  between  signification  and  form.  No  one  con- 
tends that  you  always  denotes  more  than  one,  as  no  one 
contends  that  we  always  denotes  more  than  one,  or  that 
the  German  sie  always  refers  to  several  persons  spoken  of. 
The  question  is  simply  about  form. 

If  yoit  is  not  always  plural  in  form,  let  us  sa y you  art> 
even  if  we  should  follow  the  analogy  of  you  was  and  say 
you  is.  And,  according  to  the  same  principle,  let  the  ed- 
itor of  the*  newspaper,  when  he  means  only  himself,  say 
we  am , or  we  is.  We  shall  then  have  everything,  as  Tony 
Lumpkins’s  friend  expresses  it,  in  a “ concatenation  accord- 
ingly.” 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 

IT  is  almost  impossible  to  think  of  Shelley  without  feel- 
ings of  the  deepest  sorrow.  The  many  sad  incidents 
in  his  brief  life,  his  wild  and  restless  disposition,  his  insane 
ideas  of  the  Christian  religion,  and  his  sudden  and  horrible 
death,  crowd  upon  us  in  mournful  and  rapid  succession. 

He  was  born  on  the  4th  of  August,  1792,  at  his  father’s 
residence,  known  as  Field  Place,  in  Sussex  County,  England. 

Through  an  imperfect  knowledge  of  the  facts  of  his  birth, 
he  has  been  represented  as  a descendant  of  Sir  Philip  Sid- 
ney. His  grandfather,  Sir  Bysshe  Shelley,  married  (the 
last  time)  Miss  Sidney  Perry,  who  was  a descendant  of  Sir 
Philip  Sidney;  but  the  poet’s  father,  Timothy  Shelley, 
sprang  from  a previous  marriage.  It  is  useless,  however, 
to  attempt  to  correct  the  error,  for,  like  the  mythical  story 
of  William  Tell  and  the  apple,  it  has  passed  into  history. 
And,  indeed,  it  seems  almost  a pity  to  spoil  the  fiction,  for 
Shelley  resembled  Sidney  — that  “ chivalric  warbler  in 
poetic  prose” — somewhat  in  personal  appearance,  in  dig- 
nity and  elegance  of  demeanor,  in  refinement  and  cultiva- 
tion of  taste,  and  in  magnanimity  and  nobleness  of  soul. 

At  the  age  of  thirteen,  Shelley  was  sent  to  Eton  to  pre- 
pare for  a course  of  study  at  the  University  of  Oxford.  At 
Eton  he  made  much  progress  in  Latin  and  Greek,  but  at 
Oxford  he  neglected  the  regular  course  of  study  in  order  to 
gratify  his  taste  in  the  science  of  metaphysics. 


191 


192 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Shelley,  at  this  time,  had  begun  to  compose  in  both 
prose  and  verse,  and,  with  some  assistance,  wrote  several 
romances;  but  it  was  his  misfortune  to  offend  the  dignity 
of  the  faculty  of  Oxford  by  writing  a pamphlet,  in  which 
he  endeavored  to  prove  the  non-existence  of  a Deity.  For 
this  offence  he  was  very  foolishly  expelled.  The  vain  and 
weak  judges  attempted  to  justify  his  expulsion,  on  the  ground 
that  it  was  in  conformity  with  a statute  which  expressly  pro- 
vided that  the  presence  of  an  atheist  should  not  be  tolerated 
within  the  walls  of  the  University.  This  statute  has,  how- 
ever, to  the  credit  of  this  celebrated  institution  of  learning, 
been  repealed.  It  must  have  required  the  height  of  stu- 
pidity to  suppose  that  the  sublime  teachings  of  the  Christian 
religion,  glittering,  as  it  were,  with  all  that  is  great  and 
good  since  the  world  began,  could  be  endangered  by  the 
erratic  speculations  of  a youth  scarcely  eighteen  years  of  age. 

Shelley’s  expulsion  from  college  was  a sad  disappoint- 
ment to  his  family.  They  believed  that  they  were,  in  some 
measure,  involved  in  his  disgrace.  His  father  refused  to 
allow  him  to  return  home,  except  on  condition  of  his  re- 
nunciation of  his  religious  opinions.  This  he  indignantly 
refused  to  do.  He  went  to  London,  thoroughly  convinced 
that  he  was  a martyr  to  the  most  oppressive  tyranny. 

While  in  London,  he  formed  the  acquaintance  of  Har- 
riet Westbrook,  a lady  young  and  beautiful,  but  who  was 
beneath  him  in  rank  and  social  position,  being  the  daugh- 
ter of  a tavern-keeper.  Notwithstanding  the  most  vehe- 
ment opposition,  he  married  her. 

In  1812,  Shelley  went  to  Ireland.  He  immediately 
became  interested  in  the  cause  of  Irish  freedom.  He  issued 
an  address  to  the  people,  in  which  he  deprecated  the  prev- 
alence of  the  Catholic  religion.  He  said  that  “the  Inqui- 
sition was  set  up,  and  in  the  course  of  one  year  thirty  thou- 
sand people  were  burnt  in  Spain  for  entertaining  a different 
opinion  from  the  Pope  and  the  priests.  The  bigoted  monks 
of  France  massacred,  in  one  night,  eighty  thousand  Pro- 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


193 


testants.”  He  warned  the  people  of  Ireland  to  take  care 
that,  while  one  tyranny  was  destroyed,  another  be  not 
allowed  to  spring  up  in  its  place.  He  told  them  to  think, 
talk,  and  act  for  themselves,  and  to  be  free  and  happy,  but 
first  to  be  wise  and  good. 

Shelley  professed  to  have  little  respect  for  the  marriage 
relation.  In  a letter  to  a friend  he  says:  “l  am  a young 
man,  not  of  age,  and  have  been  married  for  a year  to  a 
woman  younger  than  myself.  Love  seems  inclined  to  stay 
in  prison,  and  my  only  reason  for  putting  him  in  chains, 
whilst  convinced  of  the  unholiness  of  the  act,  was  a knowl- 
edge that,  in  the  present  state  of  society,  if  love  is  not  thus 
villanously  treated,  she  who  is  most  loved  will  be  treated 
worst  by  a misjudging  world.” 

His  marriage  proved  an  unhappy  one.  Domestic  discord 
ensued,  which  soon  ended  in  separation  and  divorce.  Cir- 
cumstances, ere  long,  brought  them  together,  and  they  were 
again  united.  But  the  heart,  once  estranged  from  the  ob- 
ject of  its  affections,  is  ever  afterward  cold  and  passionless. 
A faint  light  may  glimmer,  for  a while,  on  the  altar,  but 
the  sacred  fire  is  never  again  renewed.  The  urn  itself  is 
polluted,  and  breaks,  as  it  were,  from  very  coldness,  refus- 
ing even  to  hold  the  ashes  of  its  former  love.  After  the 
separation,  Shelley  travelled  on  the  continent  with  Mary 
Godwin,  the  daughter  of  William  Godwin  and  Mary  Wol- 
stonecraft.  On  his  return  to  England,  he  learned  that  his 
wife  had  committed  suicide.  This  event  tinged  with  sorrow 
the  remainder  of  his  life. 

It  is  thought  that  he  endeavored  to  describe  his  feelings 
at  this  occurrence  in  the  portrait  of  the  maniac  in  “Julian 
and  Maddalo.” 

It  is  almost  impossible  to  say  to  what  extent  Shelley  is 
to  blame  for  the  causes  which  led  this  unhappy  woman  to 
seek  refuge  from  her  troubles  in  the  grave.  It  is  certain 
that  she  became  imbued  with  his  religious  opinions,  and 

17 


i94 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


was  thus  deprived  of  the  only  comfort  that  could  possibly 
bring  rest  to  her  weary  soul. 

In  a short  time  after  this  occurrence,  he  married  Miss 
Godwin,  and  to  her  we  must  attribute  the  inspiration  of 
some  of  his  greatest  poems.  In  1 8 1 8 he  wrote  his  “ Beatrice 
Cenci,”  and  in  1819  his  beautiful  tribute  to  Keats. 

Shelley  was  passionately  fond  of  boating.  There  was 
no  other  amusement  that  afforded  him  as  much  pleasure. 
In  July,  1822,  he  and  a Mr.  Williams  sailed  from  Leghorn 
to  Lerici  in  a boat  of  peculiar  construction,  requiring  the 
most  skilful  management.  The  boat  was  upset  in  a storm, 
and  their  bodies  were  washed  ashore.  In  Shelley’s  pocket 
was  found  a copy  of  Keats’s  poem,  “ Lamia.”  The  quaran- 
tine regulations  of  Tuscany  required  everything  to  be  burnt 
that  drifted  to  shore.  In  accordance  with  this  custom,  his 
remains  were  burned  in  the  presence  of  Lord  Byron,  Leigh 
Hunt,  and  Mr.  Trelawney.  A funeral  pyre  was  made  of 
the  most  precious  materials,  including  frankincense,  per- 
fume, and  wine.  As  the  beautiful  flame  lifted  its  quivering 
light  to  heaven,  it  is  said  to  have  looked  as  though  it  con- 
tained the  glassy  essence  of  vitality. 

His  ashes  were  collected  and  deposited  in  the  Protestant 
burial-ground  in  Rome,  near  the  grave  of  Keats,  where 
flowers  ever  bloom  and  breathe  their  perfume  upon  the  air. 

Shelley  has  been  cited  as  an  august  example  to  those 
who  aspire  to  universal  knowledge.  He  was  the  most  dili- 
gent of  students.  He  read  and  studied  at  all  times  — at 
table,  in  bed,  and  while  walking  and  riding.  Out  of  the 
twenty-four  hours,  he  frequently  read  eighteen.  It  is  said 
that  he  was  unrivalled  in  the  justness  and  extent  of  his  ob- 
servations on  natural  objects,  and  that  he  knew  every  plant 
by  its  name,  and  was  familiar  with  all  the  productions  of 
the  earth. 

It  would  be  difficult  to  define  his  views  of  religion.  In- 
deed, it  would  seem  that  he  had  no  fixed  or  settled  ideas 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


I95 


of  religion.  In  “ Queen  Mab  ” he  speaks  of  a spirit  of  the 
universe  and  a co-eternal  fairy  of  the  earth.  At  one  time 
he  believed  in  the  doctrine  of  a pre-existing  state.  On 
one  occasion  he  met  a ragged,  bare-headed  gypsy  girl, 
about  five  or  six  years  old,  gathering  shells.  He  ran  up  to 
her,  and  exclaimed : “ How  much  intellect  is  here,  and  what 
an  occupation  for  one  who  once  knew  the  whole  circle  of 
the  sciences  — who  has  forgotten  them  all,  it  is  true,  but 
who  could  certainly  recollect  them,  though  it  is  most  prob- 
able she  never  will.” 

After  propounding  a number  of  questions  to  the  little 
gypsy,  which  of  course  were  unintelligible  to  her,  he  turned 
from  her,  and  said  to  a friend  accompanying  him,  “ Every 
true  Platonist  must  be  fond  of  children,  for  they  are  our 
masters  in  philosophy.  The  mind  of  a new-born  child  is  . 
not,  as  Locke  says,  a sheet  of  blank  paper.  On  the  con- 
trary, it  is  an  Elzevir  Plato,  say  rather  an  encyclopaedia, 
comprising  all  that  ever  was  or  ever  will  be  discovered.’ ’ 

Quite  a number  of  similar  stories  are  told,  illustrative  of 
Shelley’s  faith  in  the  doctrine  of  pre-existence.  It  is  said 
that  one  day  he  met  a woman  on  Magdalen  Bridge,  with  a 
child  in  her  arms.  He  immediately  seized  it,  to  the  horror 
of  the  mother,  who  took  him  for  a madman,  and  was  fearful 
that  he  might  throw  it  in  the  water.  Shelley  exclaimed, 
“ Madam,  will  your  baby  tell  us  anything  about  pre-exist- 
ence?” On  being  assured  that  the  child  could  not  speak, 
he  continued,  “ Worse  and  worse;  but  surely  the  babe  can 
speak  if  he  will,  for  he  is  only  a few  weeks  old.  He  may, 
perhaps,  fancy  that  he  cannot,  but  that  is  a silly  whim.  He 
cannot  have  entirely  forgotten  the  use  of  speech  in  so  short 
a time.  The  thing  is  impossible.  ’ ’ 

We  cannot  take  leave  of  Shelley  without  a few  words  in 
regard  to  his  poetry. 

He  was,  perhaps,  the  most  perfect  versifier  in  the  lan- 
guage. His  words  seemed  ever  to  come  winged  and  obe- 


196 


STUDIES  IN  .LITERATURE. 


client  to  his  call.  His  lines  to  “An  Indian  Air/’  and  his 
“Ode  to  the  Skylark,”  are  unequalled  for  the  exquisite  soft- 
ness and  delicacy  of  their  rhythm  and  melody.  They  give 
“a  very  echo  to  the  seat  where  Love  is  throned/ 1 Words 
fail  to  express  sufficient  admiration  for  the  “Sensitive 
Plant.* ’ It  seems  that  a touch  would  profane  it.  It  is  of 
this  world,  and  yet  not  of  this  world.  We  have  in  it  every- 
thing that  is  deliciously  ravishing  in  romance  and  poetry. 
It  is  everywhere  enamelled  with  thoughts  of  gold.  Passion 
seems  to  emanate  from  it  as  if  from  a shrine.  It  is  like  an 
exhalation  from  the  most  exquisite  perfume,  that  dies,  as  it 
were,  from  its  very  sweetness.  All  the  inspiration  at  the 
command  of  genius,  beauty,  power,  and  passion,  breathes, 
and  glows,  and  burns  around  it,  and  we  are  as  much  im- 
pressed with  its  weird  and  inexplicable  philosophy, 

“ Where  nothing  is,  but  all  things  seem, 

And  we  the  shadows  of  the  dream,’’ 

as  with  the  delicious  and  entrancing  music  of  its  numbers. 
What  could  be  finer  than  the  description  of  the  flowers  that 
bloomed  in  the  garden  where  the  Sensitive  Plant  closed  its 
fanlike  leaves  beneath  the  kisses  of  night ! — 

“ And  the  Naiad-like  Lily  of  the  vale, 

Whom  youth  makes  so  fair  and  passion  so  pale; 

And  the  Rose,  like  a nymph  to  the  bath  address’d, 

Which  unveil’d  the  depth  of  her  glowing  breast, 

Till  fold  after  fold  to  the  fainting  air 
The  soul  of  her  beauty  and  love  lay  bare.” 

The  description  of  the  Eve  of  this  Eden,  who  “tended 
this  garden  fair/*  is  even  more  passionately  beautiful: 

“ She  had  no  companion  of  mortal  race, 

But  her  tremulous  breath  and  flushing  face 

Told,  while  the  morn  kiss’d  the  sleep  from  her  eyes. 

That  her  dreams  were  less  slumber  than  Paradise. 

“ As  if  some  bright  spirit,  for  her  sweet  sake, 

Had  deserted  heaven  while  the  stars  were  awake; 


PERCY  BYSSHE  SHELLEY. 


I97 


As  if  yet  around  her  he  lingering  were, 

Though  the  veil  of  daylight  conceal’d  him  from  her.” 

“ Epipsychidion,”  next  to  the  “Sensitive  Plant,”  is  the 
most  strangely  beautiful  of  all  the  author’s  productions.  It 
is  one  of  the  most  exquisite  love-poems  in  the  whole  range 
of  English  literature.  It  is  the  very  soul  of  passion  and 
purity.  There  is  not  the  slightest  taint  of  indelicacy  about 
it.  There  is  nothing  whatever  in  it  that  could  tend  to  con- 
vey the  impression  of  licentiousness  or  sensuality.  It  is 
confused  in  passion’s  golden  purity. 

“ Like  a naked  bride, 

Glowing  at  once  with  love  and  loveliness, 

Blushes  and  trembles  at  its  own  excess.” 

In  a former  part  of  this  sketch,  we  spoke  of  Shelley’s 
insane  speculations  upon  the  Christian  religion.  It  is  grat- 
ifying to  know  that,  as  he  advanced  in  life,  his  faith  became 
more  and  more  weakened  in  the  wretched  philosophy  which 
he  endeavored  to  substitute  for  the  divine  precepts  of  our 
Saviour.  Had  he  lived  a few  years  longer,  we  do  not 
doubt  that  his  atheistical  opinions  would  have  been  wholly 
discarded. 


17  * 


THE  GYPSIES. 


HE  Gypsies  are  wholly  ignorant  of  their  origin,  and 


have  kept  but  an  imperfect  record  of  their  migra- 
tions ; but  it  is  evident  that  they  are  a distinct  race  of 
people.  Like  the  Jews,  they  have  no  country  of  their  own, 
and  are  scattered  over  all  parts  of  the  globe.  Time  has 
made  little  or  no  change  in  their  peculiarities.  They  have 
the  same  language,  personal  appearance,  habits,  and  cus- 
toms that  they  had  centuries  ago.  The  name  of  Gypsies 
(meaning  Egyptians)  is  doubtless  an  incorrect  one.  At 
least  we  know  of  nothing  to  justify  them  in  the  assumption 
of  the  title.  In  Italy  they  are  called  “Zingari,”  in  Ger- 
many “Zigeuner,”  in  Spain  “Gitanos,”  in  Turkey 
“Tchengenler,”  in  Persia  “Sisech  Hindu,”  in  Sweden 
“Tartars,”  and  in  France  “Bohemiens.” 

Borrow  expresses  the  opinion  that  the  name  of  Gypsies 
originated  among  the  priests  and  learned  men  of  Europe, 
who  expected  to  find  in  Scripture  some  account  of  their 
origin  and  some  clew  to  their  skill  in  the  occult  sciences. 

Simson,  the  author  of  a recent  work  entitled  the  “ His- 
tory of  the  Gypsies,”  believes  that  they  are  a mixture  of  the 
shepherd-kings  and  the  native  Egyptians,  who  formed  part 
of  the  mixed  multitude”  mentioned  in  the  Biblical  account 
of  the  expulsion  of  the  Jews  from  Egypt.  Grellman,  how- 
ever, traces  their  origin  to  India.  He  says  that  they  belong 
to  the  Soodra  caste.  Vulcanius  describes  them  simply  as 


198 


THE  GYPSIES.  I99 

robbers  and  outlaws,  and  Hervas  regards  their  language  as 
“a  mere  jargon  of  banditti/ * 

Their  keen,  black  eyes,  swarthy  complexion,  long  raven 
locks,  high  cheek-bones,  and  projecting  lower  jaws  evi- 
dently indicate  Asiatic  origin.  It  is  certain  that  neither 
their  language  nor  physiognomy  is  African.  It  is  argued 
that  if  really  Egyptians,  they  would  in  all  probability  have 
preserved  a religion,  or  some  of  the  forms  of  worship  so 
characteristic  of  the  descendants  of  that  people;  whereas 
the  Gypsies  have  no  religion  at  all. 

Indeed,  it  is  a proverb  with  them  that  “the  Gypsy  church 
was  built  of  lard,  and  the  dogs  ate  it.” 

Whether  Egyptians  or  not,  they  are  doubtless  what  they 
claim  to  be,  “Rommany  Chals,,,  and  not  “Gorgios.” 
Very  few  who  have  seen  them  will  refuse  to  believe  that 
they  do  not  understand  the  art  of  making  horse-shoes,  of 
snake-charming,  fortune-telling,  stealing  children,  poison- 
ing with  the  drows,  and  of  singing  such  songs  as  the  fol- 
lowing : 

“ The  Rommany  chi 
And  the  Rommany  chal 
Shall  jaw  tasaulor 
To  drab  the  bawlor, 

And  dook  the  gry 
Of  the  farming  rye. 

“ The  Rommany  churl 
And  the  Rommany  girl 
To-morrow  shall  hie 
To  poison  the  sty, 

And  bewitch  on  the  mead 
The  farmer’s  steed.” 


At  one  time  the  Gypsies  were  under  the  protection  of  the 
Scottish  kings.  James  IV.  gave  Antonius  Gawino,  who 
claimed  to  be  “ Count  ©f  Little  Egypt/  ’ a letter  of  recom- 
mendation to  the  King  of  Denmark. 


200 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


It  is  well  known  that  James  V.  issued  a document  guar- 
anteeing protection  to  “ Our  lovit  John  Faa,  Lord  and 
Erie  of  Litil  Egypt.”  This  document  also  called  upon 
the  people  of  Scotland  not  to  molest  the  said  John  Faa  or  his 
band  ‘ ‘ in  doing  their  lawful  business.  ’ ’ It  has  been  a matter 
of  conjecture  what  that  business  was ; but  it  was,  doubtless, 
as  Mr.  Petelengro  would  say,  “business  of  Egypt.” 

The  history  of  the  Faas  is  singularly  interesting.  The 
tribes  in  England  and  Scotland^  were  ruled  by  them  for 
several  centuries. 

Andro  Faa  possessed  sufficient  influence  with  the  crown 
to  procure  a pardon  for  manslaughter  in  1554. 

In  the  seventeenth  century  one  of  his  descendants,  Cap- 
tain John  Faa,  made  such  an  impression  on  the  heart  of  the 
beautiful  Countess  of  Cassilis  that  she  was  persuaded  to  elope 
with  him  from  her  husband,  but  the  captain  and  most  of  his 
band  were  soon  afterward  captured  and  executed. 

This  incident  gave  rise  to  the  celebrated  song  entitled 
“The  Gypsie  Laddie.”  We  give  below  the  first  and  con- 
cluding verses : 

“ The  Gypsy  came  to  Lord  Cassilis’  yett, 

And  O but  they  sang  bonnie ; 

They  sang  sae  sweet  and  sae  complete, 

That  down  came  our  fair  ladie. 

“ They  were  fifteen  valiant  men, 

Black,  but  very  bonnie, 

And  they  all  lost  their  lives  for  ane  — 

The  Earl  of  Cassilis’  ladie.” 

The  Faas  afterward  changed  their  name  to  Fall.  Many 
of  them  were  distinguished  for  their  fine  personal  appear- 
ance, dignified  and  elegant  bearing,  and  superior  mental 
accomplishments.  They  are  connected  by  marriage  with 
some  of  the  noblest  families  in  Scotland.  Captain  James 
Fall,  member  of  Parliament,  was  particularly  proud  of  his 


THE  GYPSIES. 


201 


Gypsy  origin,  and  took  every  opportunity  to  boast  of  it ; and 
a Mrs.  Fall,  wife  of  the  Provost  of  Dunbar,  represented  with 
her  own  hands,  in  needle-work,  the  whole  family,  “with 
their  asses  and  Gypsy  paraphernalia,  leaving  Yetholm.” 

According  to  Mr.  Simson,  it  is  almost  impossible  to  tell 
in  Scotland  who  are  not  Gypsies.  He  says  that  they  are  to 
be  met  with  in  every  sphere  of  Scottish  life,  and  that  he  is 
acquainted  with  youths  and  men  of  middle  age,  of  educa- 
tion and  character,  who  follow  very  respectable  occupations, 
who  are  Gypsies.  He  thinks  that  the  race  has  become  so 
prolific  that  there  are  probably  500,000  of  them  in  the 
British  isles  alone. 

One  of  the  Miss  Falls  married  Sir  John  Anstruther,  of 
Elie,  Bart. 

It  is  said  that  during  an  exciting  election  for  Parlia- 
ment, in  which  Sir  John  was  a candidate,  his  opponent 
taunted  him  with  his  wife’s  Gypsy  origin,  and  sought  to 
injure  him  by  reference  to  it.  The  streets,  it  is  said,  re- 
sounded with  the  song  of  “The  Gypsy  Laddie,”  whenever 
Lady  Anstruther  entered  them,  and  on  one  occasion  a 
friend  expressed  the  deepest  regret  that  the  rabble  should 
thus  insult  her.  “Oh,  never  mind,”  replied  Lady  An- 
struther, “they  are  only  repeating  what  they  hear  from 
their  parents.” 

The  Gypsies  have  a great  passion  for  horses,  and  treat 
them  with  the  utmost  kindness.  It  is  well  known  that 
while  they  will  eat  almost  every  kind  of  carrion,  they  will 
not  touch  the  flesh  of  a horse. 

It  would  seem  that  there  is  a peculiar  charm  attached  to 
Gypsy  life,  for  it  is  seldom  that  one  of  their  number  de- 
serts them,  and  when  he  does  he  is  almost  sure  to  return 
the  first  opportunity.  Hence  the  saying : “ Once  a Gypsy, 
always  a Gypsy.”  But  there  are  a good  many  who  take 
the  appearance  of  Gypsies  without  having  a Gypsy  origin, 
and  this  reminds  us  of  an  amusing  anecdote  related  by 


202 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


that  accomplished  scholar  and  author,  Noble  Butler. 
While  riding  on  the  top  of  an  omnibus  in  the  Duke  of 
Devonshire’s  grounds,  he  saw  before  him  a gang  of  what 
appeared  to  be  Gypsies.  A gentleman  sitting  by  him  said, 
<CA  great  many  dye  their  faces  in  this  part  of  the  country, 
and  pass  themselves  as  Gypsies,  that  they  may  beg  and 
steal.”  As  the  omnibus  rolled  on,  a little  boy  ran  out 
from  the  gang  to  the  side  of  the  omnibus,  crying  out, 
66  Plase,  sir,  to  lave  us  a pinny,”  with  unmistakable  Irish 
accent. 

The  Gypsy  diet  is  said  to  be  very  savory  and  palatable, 
but  while  we,  like  Dominie  Sampson,  might  be  won  over  to 
the  goodly  stew  of  Meg  Merrilies,  which  was  composed  of 
fowls,  hares,  partridges,  and  moor-game,  boiled  in  a mess 
with  potatoes,  onions,  and  leeks,  we  hardly  think  that  we 
could  become  reconciled  to  the  doctrine  that  “ what  God 
kills  is  better  than  what  man  kills.” 

It  is  said  that  when  a white  person  marries  a Gypsy, 
he  instinctively  withdraws  from  all  intercourse  with  his 
own  race  and  casts  his  lot  with  the  Gypsies.  The  chil- 
dren born  of  such  a union  become  ultra  Gypsies.  Borrow 
illustrates  this  fact  with  a story  of  a Spanish  officer  who 
adopted  a young  female  Gypsy  child,  whose  parents  had 
been  executed,  and  educated  and  married  her.  A son  sprang 
from  this  marriage,  who  rose  to  the  rank  of  a captain  in  the 
service  of  Donna  Isabel,  but  his  hatred  of  the  white  race 
was  so  intense  that  he  could  not  bear  the  sight  of  his  own 
father. 

Mr.  Simson  gives  the  following  account  of  the  manner  in 
which  Gypsy  children  are  brought  up  who  spring  from 
such  marriages. 

The  mother  tells  them  her  wonderful  story,  informs  them 
who  they  are,  and  of  the  dreadful  prejudice  that  exists 
against  them.  She  tells  them  about  Pharaoh  and  Joseph 
in  Egypt,  terming  her  people  Pharaoh’s  folk.  In  short  she 


THE  GYPSIES. 


203 


dazzles  the  imagination  of  the  children  from  the  moment 
they  can  comprehend  the  simplest  idea.  Then  she  teaches 
them  her  words  or  language  as  the  “real  Egyptian/’  and 
frightens  and  bewilders  youthful  minds  by  telling  them 
that  they  are  subject  to  be  hanged  if  they  are  known  to  be 
Gypsies,  or  to  speak  these  words,  or  will  be  looked  upon 
as  wild  beasts  by -those  around  them.  She  then  informs 
the  children  how  long  the  Gypsies  have  been  in  the  coun- 
try ; how  they  lived  in  tents,  how  they  were  persecuted, 
banished,  and  hanged,  merely  for  being  Gypsies.  She 
then  tells  them  of  her  people  being  in  every  part  of  the 
world,  whom  they  can  recognize  by  the  language  and  signs 
which  she  is  teaching  them,  and  that  her  race  will  every- 
where be  ready  to  shed  their  blood  for  them.  She  then 
dilates  upon  'the  benefits  that  arise  from  being  a Gypsy, 
benefits  negative  as  well  as  positive ; for  should  they  ever 
be  set  upon,  garroted  for  example,  all  they  will  have  to  do 
will  be  to  cry  out  some  such  expression  as  Bient  rate , calo> 
chabo , (Good  night,  Gypsy,  or  black  fellow,)  when,  if  there 
is  a Gypsy  near  them,  he  will  protect  them.  The  children 
will  be  fondled  by  her  relatives,  handed  about  and  hugged 
as  little  ducks  of  Gypsies.  The  granny,  while  sitting  at 
the  fireside  like  a witch,  performs  no  small  part  in  the  edu- 
cation of  the  children,  making  them  fairly  dance  with  ex- 
citement. In  this  manner  do  the  children  of  Gypsies  have 
the  Gypsy  soubliterally  breathed  into  them. 

Borrow’ s experience  among  the  Gypsies,  as  related  in  his 
“Zincali,”  and  in  his  “Bible  in  Spain,”  and  in  “ La- 
vengro,”  seems  almost  incredible;  but  Lord  Napier,  and 
others  who  knew  him,  relate  stories  about  him,  even 
more  wonderful  than  anything  he  has  written  about  the 
Gypsies. 

This  curious  people  are  superstitious  in  the  extreme. 
They  consult  the  stars,  the  flight  of  birds,  and  the  soughing 
of  the  wind,  for  good  and  evil  omens ; and  it  is  said  they 


204 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


watch  a corpse  by  day  and  night  until  it  is  buried,  and 
believe  that  “the  Diel  tinkles  in  the  lykewake”  for  those 
who  feel,  during  what  is  called  the  “ death-throe/  * the  ter- 
rors of  remorse.  They  are  both  cowardly  and  treacherous, 
and  are  not  only  malicious,  but  cruelly  vindictive.  They 
seem  to  have  every  vice  but  the  want  of  chastity.  The 
marriage  tie  with  them  is  regarded  as  sacred.  The  cere- 
mony of  divorce  is  very  imposing,  and  is  performed  around 
the  body  of  a dead  horse,  sacrificed  for  the  occasion,  at 
the  time  of  high  noon. 

Both  sexes  have  an  inordinate  passion  for  jewelry,  and 
have  ever  exhibited  a fondness  for  a union  of  filth  and  taw- 
dry finery. 

But  whatever  may  be  said  of  them,  the  virtue  of  their 
women  is  inviolable.  It  is  seldom  if  ever  conquered,  and 
when  it  is,  the  punishment  is  death.  We  have  heard  of  a 
beautiful  Gypsy  girl  who  left  her  camp  near  Madrid  one 
evening,  attracted  by  the  strains  of  delicious  music,  to  en- 
gage in  the  festivities  of  a ball-room.  She  was  received 
with  the  utmost  enthusiasm,  and  loaded  with  jewels  and 
caresses.  When  the  guests  had  departed,  she  was  detained 
by  one  who  hoped  to  accomplish  her  ruin.  She,  for  a time, 
heroically  resisted  every  attack  upon  her  virtue,  but  yielded 
at  last.  The  next  morning  she  was  found  hung  upon  a post 
not  far  from  the  scene  of  her  crime.  The  country  was 
instantly  scoured  for  the  purpose  of  bringing  the  malefac- 
tors to  justice,  but  there  was  scarcely  a vestige  of  the  camp 
left,  nor  was  there  a Gypsy  to  be  seen  in  the  neighborhood 
for  many  years  afterward. 


DAVID  GARRICK. 


HE  life  of  Garrick  is  one  of  the  most  interesting  and 


instructive  in  the  history  of  English  literature.  He 
was  born  at  Hereford,  in  1716.  His  father  was  a captain 
in  the  English  army,  but  settled  at  Litchfield  on  half-pay, 
with  the  hope  of  being  able  to  support  his  family.  All  his 
efforts  in  this  direction  were  fruitless.  He  experienced  the 
severest  trials  of  poverty.  He  was  compelled  to  join  his 
regiment  again,  in  1731,  in  order  to  relieve  his  distress.  His 
wife,  poor,  dear,  faithful  creature,  broken  in  health  and 
spirits,  undertook  the  care  of  a family  of  seven  children. 
We  cannot  attempt  to  describe  her  suffering  during  the  ab- 
sence of  her  husband.  She  loved  him  with  a devotion  not 
of  earth,  but  of  some  purer  realm.  In  the  midst  of  trouble 
and  sickness  and  distress  she  ever  looked  forward  to  a bright 
and  happy  future,  when  no  cloud  should  darken  the  thresh- 
old of  her  happy  home.  The  words  of  comfort  she  sent  to 
the  absent  husband  and  father  unlock  all  the  portals  of  the 
heart  capable  of  being  moved  by  words  of  sympathy  and 
love.  “ I must  tell  my  dear  life  and  soul,”  she  writes,  in 
a letter  breathing  the  tenderest  vows  of  affection,  and  which 
a reviewer  says  reads  like  a bit  of  Thackeray  or  Sterne, 
“that  I am  not  able  to  live  any  longer  without  him,  for  I 
grow  very  jealous.  But  in  the  midst  of  all  this  I do  not 
blame  my  dear.  I have  very  sad  dreams  for  you,  but  I 
have  the  pleasure  when  I am  up  to  think,  were  I with  you, 
18  205 


2o6 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


how  tender  my  dear  would  be  to  me  — nay,  was  when  I was 
with  you  last.  Oh,  that  I had  you  in  my  arms  ! I would 
tell  my  dear  life  how  much  I am  his.” 

How  slowly  the  time  passed  ! Only  two  years  were  gone 
— three  more  were  to  elapse  before  they  were  to  be  together 
again.  O cruel  fate ! why  is  it  that  the  records  of  loved 
and  loving  hearts  are  so  often  written  in  tears  and  blood  ? 
The  husband  returned  at  last,  but  only  to  die  in  the  arms  of 
his  fond  and  faithful  wife.  It  is  almost  unnecessary  to  add 
that  in  less  than  one  year  her  troubled  soul,  too,  was  at  rest. 

In  early  youth  Garrick  displayed  extraordinary  talent 
for  acting.  When  eleven  years  of  age  he  acted  in  a play 
entitled  “The  Recruiting  Officer/’  and  received  no  little 
applause  from  a select  audience.  In  1728  he  went  to  Lis- 
bon to  visit  a wealthy  uncle,  and  while  at  his  house  often 
amused  dinner  parties  by  the  recitation  of  poems  and 
speeches.  He  would  then  have  adopted  the  profession  of 
an  actor,  but  his  family  had  a great  prejudice  against  the 
stage,  and  his  kind  and  gentle  and  affectionate  disposition 
would  not  allow  him  to  do  aught  that  would  add  to  their 
displeasure. 

At  eighteen  he  was  one  of  the  three  pupils  at  Dr.  John- 
son’s “Academy.”  A few  years  afterward  he  went  to  Lon- 
don in  company  with  his  teacher.  The  latter  described 
their  pecuniary  condition  by  saying  that  one  had  but  two- 
pence half-penny  in  his  pocket,  and  the  other  three  half- 
pence in  his.  Johnson  doubtless  endeavored  to  make  sport 
of  their  condition,  but  it  is  certain  that  their  means  were 
indeed  limited. 

Garrick  tried  his  fortune  as  a wine  merchant,  with  in- 
different success.  Foote,  the  author  of  the  popular  farce 
on  “Taste,”  and  one  of  the  wittiest  as  well  as  one  of  the 
meanest  of  men,  used  to  say  that  he  recollected  Garrick 
calling  himself  a wine  merchant  with  but  three  quarts  of 
vinegar  in  his  cellar. 


DAVID  GARRICK. 


207 


Garrick  attended  the  theatres  of  London  constantly, 
and  in  1740  had  made  some  reputation  as  a dramatic  critic 
and  as  an  elocutionist.  In  1741  he  made  his  first  appear- 
ance as  an  actor  at  Ipswich.  A few  months  later  he  played 
Richard  III.  before  a London  audience.  His  reputation 
was  at  once  secured.  His  fame  spread  rapidly  throughout 
the  country.  The  beau  monde  of  London  vied  with  one 
another  in  doing  him  homage.  He  was  everywhere  ad- 
mired and  praised.  He  was  dined  and  wined,  not  only 
by  people  of  fashion,  but  by  the  greatest  authors,  lawyers, 
and  statesmen.  He  won  the  friendship  of  Burke,  of  Pitt, 
and  of  Lyttleton,  of  Reynolds,  and  of  Goldsmith.  Leoni- 
das Glover  called  to  see  him  every  day.  Even  the  bard  of 
Twickenham,  when  old  and  feeble  and  ill  in  health,  left 
his  home  to  see  him.  The  London  press  teemed  with  the 
most  enthusiastic  eulogies  upon  his  wonderful  gifts.  The 
Post  declared  him  to  be  the  most  extraordinary  man  ever 
known.  The  history  of  the  stage  was  searched  in  vain  for 
a parallel.  He  had  totally  eclipsed  the  fame  of  Booth,  and 
Quin,  and  Betterton.  The  Duke  of  Argyle  could  not  find 
language  extravagant  enough  in  which  to  praise  him.  The 
cynical  Walpole  said  that  he  was  the  greatest  actor  that  ever 
lived,  both  in  tragedy  and  in  comedy.  Even  Bishop  New- 
ton wrote  to  him,  “ I have  seen  your  Richard,  Chamont, 
Bayes,  and  Lear.  I never  saw  four  actors  more  different 
from  one  another  than  you  are  from  yourself.  ” Macklin, 
who  disliked  him,  and  who  struggled  to  rival  him,  thus 
spoke  of  his  Lear:  “The  curse  was  particularly  grand.  It 
seemed  to  electrify  the  audience  with  horror.  The  words 
‘Kill ! kill ! kill ! ’ echoed  all  the  revenge  of  a frantic  king.” 
Everything  he  played  added  to  his  reputation.  There  was 
something  almost  idolatrous  about  the  honors  shown  him. 
He  was  looked  upon  “less  with  admiration  than  wonder. 9 ’ 
Though  small  in  stature,  he  awed  every  one  who  beheld 
him  with  the  majesty  of  his  appearance.  Johnson,  who 


208 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


had  no  appreciation  whatever  of  acting,  at  one  time  pre- 
tended to  dislike  him,  but  would  never  allow  any  one  else 
to  speak  ill  of  him.  When  Garrick  suggested  some 
changes  in  the  tragedy  of  “Irene,”  “Sir,”  said  Johnson, 
“the  fellow  wants  me  to  make  Mahomet  run  mad,  that  he 
may  have  an  opportunity  of  tossing  his  head  and  kicking 
his  heels.”  At  another  time  he  spoke  of  him  “as  a fellow 
who  claps  a hump  on  his  back  and  a lump  on  his  leg,  and 
cries,  ‘I  am  Richard  III. * ” This,  however,  was  not  half 
so  contemptible  as  his  reply  to  Garrick,  who  reproved  him 
for  rudeness  in  talking  to  Murphy  almost  incessantly  dur- 
ing the  performance  of  King  Lear.  “You  two  talk  so  loud,” 
said  Garrick,  ‘ ‘ you  destroy  all  my  feelings.  ” “ Pr7 y thee, 7 7 
said  Johnson,  “do  not  talk  of  feelings.  Punch  has  no 
feelings.77  Even  Boswell  confesses  that  Johnson  was  jeal- 
ous of  the  fame  of  Garrick,  and  that  it  was  incomprehen- 
sible to  him  that  an  actor’s  art  should  be  esteemed  so  highly. 
Johnson,  however,  was  either  too  conscientious,  or  had  too 
high  a regard  for  the  opinion  of  others,  not  to  acknowledge 
him  the  greatest  actor  he  had  ever  seen. 

But  notwithstanding  the  many  epithets  Johnson  applied 
to  Garrick,  Johnson  offered  to  write  his  life,  wept  the  bit- 
terest tears  at  his  funeral,  and  afterward  spoke  of  his  death 
as  an  “ event  that  had  eclipsed  the  gayety  of  nations.77 

Garrick  took  leave  of  the  stage  in  1776,  in  the  part  of 
Don  Felix,  in  the  comedy  of  “The  Wonder.77  He  was 
greeted  by  a distinguished  and  an  enthusiastic  audience. 
His  farewell  address  was  eloquent  and  affecting  in  the  ex- 
treme, and  moved  his  hearers  to  tears.  He  died  in  1779, 
and  was  buried  in  Westminster  Abbey,  near  the  monument 
of  Shakspeare. 

Few  persons  have  been  more  distinguished  for  domestic 
and  social  virtues  than  this  great  actor.  He  was  kind,  and 
gentle,  and  charitable.  He  was  on  terms  of  intimacy  with 
nearly  all  the  great  men  of  his  time.  He  was  ever  ready 


DAVID  GARRICK. 


209 


to  assist,  both  with  his  purse  and  with  his  sympathy,  every 
deserving  person  who  applied  to  him.  There  was  but  one 
thing  about  him  that  we  do  not  love  to  think  of.  We 
allude  to  his  unworthy  attachment  to  the  beautiful  but  frail 
Peg  Woffington.  She  was,  however,  a fine  actress,  and  pos- 
sessed the  rarest  gifts  for  the  appreciation  of  excellence 
and  merit  in  others.  She  was  a brilliant  talker,  and 
charmed  all  who  drew  near  her  with  her  quick,  ready  wit, 
and  sparkling  humor.  She  could  portray  a fine  lady  to 
perfection.  In  such  characters  as  Millamant  and  Lady 
Townley,  she  reigned  without  a rival.  She  sprang  from 
the  lowest  dregs  of  society.  She  had  been  actually  picked 
up  out  of  the  streets  of  Dublin,  crying  “ half-penny  salads.’ 1 
She  has  been  described  as  a dazzling  creature,  with  a head 
of  beautiful  form,  perched  like  a bird  upon  a throat  mas- 
sive, yet  shapely,  and  smooth  as  a column  of  alabaster, 
with  dark  eyes  full  of  fire  and  tenderness,  a delicious 
mouth  with  a hundred  varying  expressions,  and  that  mar- 
vellous faculty  of  giving  beauty  alike  to  love  or  scorn,  a 
sneer  or  a smile.  But  with  all  her  graces  of  mind  and 
person,  she  lacked  constancy  and  fidelity.  She  professed 
to  care  only  for  the  society  of  gentlemen,  and  often  said 
that  women  talked  of  nothing  but  silks  and  scandal.  She 
is  said  to  have  played  the  character  of  Sir  Harry  Wildair 
even  better  than  Garrick.  The  latter  refused  to  compete 
with  her  in  it,  and  abandoned  the  part  wholly  to  her.  On 
one  occasion  she  was  so  pleased  with  the  applause  she  re- 
ceived in  this  character,  that  she  ran  from  the  stage  into 
the  green-room,  and  exclaimed,  “ By  Jove  ! I believe  one- 
half  the  audience  think  I am  a man.”  To  which  Quin 
replied,  “ Madam,  the  other  half,  then,  have  the  best  rea- 
son of  knowing  to  the  contrary.” 

Garrick  at  one  time  thought  of  marrying  her,  but  his 
better  nature  triumphed  over  this  folly. 

He  was  a singularly  pure -hearted  man,  a profound 
iS* 


210 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


scholar,  and  was  versed  in  an  infinite  variety  of  knowl- 
edge, both  of  a literary  and  scientific  character.  All  his 
contributions  to  literature,  his  poems,  his  verses,  his  pro- 
logues, his  farces,  and  his  dramatic  criticisms,  are  written 
with  more  than  average  ability.  Many  of  his  epigrams, 
such  as  the  one  upon  Goldsmith,  will  live  as  long  as  the 
language  is  spoken.  He  was  wholly  free  from  envy  and 
jealousy.  No  language  is  sufficiently  strong  to  describe  his 
affection  for  his  wife.  She  has  herself  said  that  he  was 
more  of  a lover  to  her  than  a husband.  Her  devotion  to 
him  was  almost  unequalled.  During  the  thirty  years  of 
their  married  life  they  were  never  one  day  apart.  She  was 
one  of  the  most  beautiful  and  accomplished  women  of  her 
time.  She  came  from  Vienna.  She  had  been  a dancer  in 
the  theatre.  She  brought  letters  of  recommendation  from 
the  Empress  Theresa,  who  thought  her  too  beautiful  to  re- 
main near  the  court  of  Francis  I.  In  crossing  the  ocean 
in  a ship  from  Helvoet  to  Harwich,  she  was  dressed  in 
male  attire,  and  was  taken  for  a young  German  baron. 
During  the  voyage  her  conduct  was  modest  and  becoming. 
Indeed,  it  could  not  be  otherwise,  for,  like  Shakspeare’s 
Rosalind,  she  had  “ no  hose  and  doublet  in  her  disposi- 
tion.” Her  name  was  Eva  Maria  Veigel,  and  her  friends 
called  her  “ the  beautiful  Violette.”  She  had  little  diffi- 
culty in  winning  her  way  into  fashionable  society  with  her 
virtue,  grace,  beauty,  naivete , and  brilliant  accomplish- 
ments. The  Countess  of  Burlington  took  her  to  live  with 
her,  and  gave  her  on  the  occasion  of  her  marriage  a dowry 

of 

Foote,  who  scarcely  ever  spoke  well  of  any  one,  wrote 
to  Garrick,  in  1776 : 

“ It  has  been  my  misfortune  not  to  know  Mrs.  Garrick, 
but  from  what  I have  seen  and  all  I have  heard,  you  will 
have  more  to  regret  when  either  she  or  you  die,  than  any 
man  in  the  kingdom.” 


DAVID  GARRICK. 


21  I 


Wilkes  called  her  the  “ first  woman  in  England,”  and 
Churchill  “the  most  agreeable  one.”  Gibbon  said  that 
she  possessed  a secret  more  valuable  than  the  philosopher’s 
stone,  that  of  gaining  the  hearts  of  all  those  who  had  the 
happiness  of  knowing  her. 

Hogarth  painted  their  pictures  in  1772,  just  two  years 
after  their  marriage.  It  is  one  of  the  most  beautiful,  life- 
like, and  interesting  of  the  author’s  productions.  Even 
the  ordinary  engraving  taken  from  it  has  a delicacy,  a 
freshness,  and  a beauty  which  we  seldom  see  in  the  most 
carefully  elaborated  works  of  art. 

We  look  at  it  involuntarily  with  the  devotion  of  an  en- 
thusiast. There  is  something  about  it  that  speaks  at  once 
to  the  heart,  to  the  feelings,  and  to  the  understanding. 
The  spirit  of  truth,  of  consciousness,  and  beauty,  breathes 
around  it. 

This  picture  is  known  to  every  one.  It  portrays  Garrick 
in  the  act  of  composition.  His  countenance  displays  the 
deepest  thought.  His  Yiolette,  the  best  and  truest  of 
wives,  is  just  behind  him,  ready  to  steal  the  pen  from  his 
hand.  She  is  weary  of  his  being  “lost  in  thought  — 
wrapt  withal.”  She  has  the  utmost  confidence  in  his 
genius,  and  seems  to  feel  that  he  has  writen  enough  to  im- 
mortalize him,  and  that  it  is  time  for  the  inspiration  to  be 
dispelled,  that  she  may  tell  him  with  love’s  own  voice  how 
dear  he  is  to  her. 

Mrs.  Garrick  survived  her  husband  forty-three  years. 
For  more  than  a quarter  of  a century  she  would  not  allow 
any  one  to  enter  the  sacred  precincts  of  his  darkened  room. 
She  died  in  1822,  loved  and  honored  to  the  last.  After 
such  devotion,  we  need  not  wonder  that  every  one  who 
knew  them  was  struck  with  the  beautiful  oneness  of  their 
lives. 


DANTE. 


DANTE  has  been  fortunate  in  his  translators.  Cary 
and  Longfellow  have,  perhaps,  furnished  the  best 
and  truest  to  the  spirit  of  the  original.  Either  of  them  will 
give  the  reader  a better  idea  of  the  genius  of  the  great  Flor- 
entine than  Carlyle’s  literal  prose  version. 

In  1867,  Dr.  James  Parsons  published  the  first  canto  of 
the  “ Divina  Commedia,”  in  which  he  substituted  the  deca- 
syllabic quatrain  for  the  triple  rhyme  of  the  Italian  with 
tolerable  effect,  but  his  work  is  regarded  in  no  other  light 
than  as  a free  translation. 

Cary’s  translation  is  even  better  known  in  this  country 
than  Longfellow’s.  Prescott  said  of  it:  “If  Dante  could 
have  foreseen  it,  he  would  have  given  his  translator  a place 
in  his  ninth  heaven.” 

But  notwithstanding  this  praise,  and  the  popularity  of 
the  work,  it  lacks  the  music,  the  terza  rima , the  “continu- 
ous interchanging  harmony”  of  the  original.  Longfellow, 
in  the  opinion  of  our  ablest  critics,  has  given  us  a rigorous 
adhesion  to  the  words  and  idioms  of  the  text,  and  at  the 
same  time  has  preserved  all  its  delicious  and  entrancing 
music. 

The  following  passage  has  been  thought  very  difficult  to 
render  true  to  the  original,  but  Longfellow  seems  to  have 
accomplished  the  task  with  marvellous  skill  and  beauty : 

“ Ed  un  di  lor,  non  questi  che  parlava, 

Si  torse  sotto  ’1  peso  che  lo  ’mpaccia, 

212 


DANTE. 


213 


E videmi  e conobbemi,  e chiamava 
Tenendo  gli  occhi  con  fatica  fisi 
A me  cbi  tutto  chin  con  loro  andava. 

Oh,  diss’  io  lui,  non  se’  tu  Oderisi, 

L’  onor  d’  Agobbio  e 1’  onor  di  quell’  arte 
Ch’  alluminare  b chiamata  in  Parisi  ? 

Frate,  diss’  egli,  piu  ridon  le  carte 

Che  pennelleggia  Franco  Bolognese : 

L’  onore  e tutto  or  suo,  e mio  in  parte. 

Ben  non  sare’  io  stato  si  cortese 

Mentre  ch’  io  vissi,  per  lo  gran  disio 
Dell’  eccellenza  ove  mio  core  intese. 

Di  tal  superbia  qui  si  paga  il  fio : 

Ed  ancor  non  sarei  qui,  se  non  fosse 
Che,  possendo  peccar,  mi  volsi  a Dio. 

Oh  vana  gloria  dell’  umane  posse, 

Com’  poco  verde  in  su  la  cima  dura 
Se  non  e giunta  dall’  etadi  grosse ! 

Credette  Cimabue  nella  pintura 

Tenor  lo  campo;  ed  ora  ha  Giotto  il  grido, 

Si  che  la  fama  di  colui  s’  oscura. 

Cosi  ha  tolto  1’  uno  all’  altro  Guido 

La  gloria  della  lingua ; e forse  e nato 
Chi  1’  uno  e 1’  altro  caccera  di  nido. 

Non  e il  mondan  romore  altro  ch’  un  fiato 

Di  vento  ch’  or  vien  quinci  ed  or  vien  quindi, 
E muta  nome  perehe  muta  lato. 

Che  fama  avrai  tu  piu  se  vecchia  scindi 
Da  te  la  carne,  che  se  fossi  morto 
Innanzi  che  lasciassi  il  pappo  e T dindi, 

Pria  che  passin  mill  anni  ? ch’  e piu  corto 

Spazio  all’  eterno  ch’  un  muover  di  ciglia 
A1  cerchio  che  piu  tardi  in  cielo  e torto. 

Colui  che  del  cammin  si  poco  piglia 
Dinanzi  a te,  Toscana  sono  tutta, 

Ed  ora  appena  in  Siena  sen  pispiglia, 

Ond’  era  sire,  quando  fu  distrutta 

La  rabbi  a Fiorentina,  che  superba 
Fu  a quel  tempo  si  com’  ora  e putta. 

La  vostra  nominanza  e color  d’  erba 


214 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Che  viene  e va,  e quel  la  discolora 
Per  cui  ell*  esce  della  terra  acerba.” 

Purgatoria , xi.  74-117. 

“ And  one  of  them,  not  this  one  who  was  speaking, 
Twisted  himself  beneath  the  weight  that  cramps  him, 
And  look’d  at  me,  and  knew  me,  and  call’d  out, 

Keeping  his  eyes  laboriously  fix’d 

On  me,  who  all  bow’d  down  was  going  with  them. 

‘Oh,’  ask’d  I him,  ‘ art  thou  not  Oderisi, 

Agobbio's  honor,  and  honor  of  that  art 
Which  is  in  Paris  called  illuminating  ? ’ 

‘ Brother,’  said  he,  ‘ more  laughing  are  the  leaves 
Touch’d  by  the  brush  of  Franco  Bolognese  : 

All  his  the  honor  now,  and  mine  in  part. 

In  sooth  I had  not  been  so  courteous 

While  I was  living,  for  the  great  desire 
Of  excellence,  on  which  my  heart  was  bent. 

Here  of  such  pride  is  paid  the  forfeiture : 

And  yet  I should  not  be  here,  were  it  not 
That,  having  power  to  sin,  I turn’d  to  God. 

O thou  vain  glory  of  the  human  powers, 

How  little  green  upon  thy  summit  lingers, 

If ’t  be  not  follow’d  by  an  age  of  grossness! 

In  painting  Cimabue  thought  that  he 

Should  hold  the  field,  now  Giotto  has  the  cry, 

So  that  the  other’s  fame  is  growing  dim. 

So  has  one  Guido  from  the  other  taken 

The  glory  of  our  tongue,  and  he  perchance 
Is  born  who  from  the  nest  shall  chase  them  both. 

Nought  is  this  mundane  rumor  but  a breath 

Of  wind,  that  comes  now  this  way  and  now  that, 

And  changes  name,  because  it  changes  side. 

What  fame  shalt  thou  have  more,  if  old  peel  off 

From  thee  thy  flesh,  than  if  thou  hadst  been  dead 
Before  thou  left  th z pappo  and  the  dindi , 

Ere  pass  a thousand  years  ? which  is  a shorter 
Space  to  the  eterne,  than  twinkling  of  an  eye 
Unto  the  circle  that  in  heaven  wheels  slowest. 

With  him,  who  takes  so  little  of  the  road 
In  front  of  me,  all  Tuscany  resounded; 


DANTE. 


215 


And  now  he  scarce  is  lisp’d  of  in  Siena, 

Where  he  was  lord,  what  time  was  overthrown 
The  Florentine  delirium,  that  superb 
Was  at  that  day  as  now ’t  is  prostitute. 

Your  reputation  is  the  color  of  grass 

Which  comes  and  goes,  and  that  discolors  it 
By  which  it  issues  green  from  out  the  earth.’  ” 

Longfellow . 

We  rejoice  to  know  that  Dante  is  now  being  more  thor- 
oughly read  and  studied  than  ever  before.  No  poet  who 
has  ever  lived  has  equalled  him  in  intensity  of  feeling,  or 
surpassed  him  in  fiery  bursts  of  passionate  eloquence.  He 
has  often  been  compared  to  Petrarch ; but  there  is  little  or 
nothing  in  the  poetry  of  the  latter  to  justify  the  comparison. 
It  is  true  that  there  is  much  to  admire  in  Petrarch,  but  there 
is  also  much  that  is  prurient,  insipid,  and  disgusting.  We 
weary  of  his  love-speeches  to  Laura.  They  are  too  monot- 
onous. They  lack  strength,  variety,  depth,  and  originality. 
The  incident  he  relates  of  seeing  a young  peasant-girl,  on  a 
summer  day,  washing  in  a running  stream  a veil  of  the  same 
texture  as  one  worn  by  Laura,  and  of  his  trembling  before  her 
as  if  in  the  presence  of  Laura  herself,  may  be  very  senti- 
mental and  romantic,  but  we  hardly  think  it  worthy  of 
being  enshrined  in  verse,  and  least  of  all  such  verse  as 
Petrarch  was  capable  of  writing. 

Dante’s  love-speeches,  on  the  contrary,  are  never  occa- 
sioned by  such  ludicrous  incidents.  He  seems  to  have  a 
soul  above  the  aggrandizement  of  insignificant  things.  His 
poetry  is  ever  marked  by  a uniform  excellence.  He  is  at 
all  times  terribly  in  earnest.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  think 
of  him  without  regretting  that  the  age  in  which  he  lived  was 
incapable  of  appreciating  his  rare  and  wondrous  gifts.  It 
seems  that  fortune  frowned  upon  him  from  his  birth.  When 
only  nine  years  of  age  he  met  Beatrice  Portinari,  to  whose 
love  and  beauty  he  attributed  the  inspiration  of  his  genius. 


216 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


She  died  in  early  youth,  but  not  until  she  became  the  wife 
of  another.  It  is  said  that  she  did  not  wholly  turn  a deaf 
ear  to  his  vows  of  affection,  but  maintained  for  him  the 
loftiest  ideas  of  Platonic  love.  His  disconsolate  grief,  on 
being  unable  to  secure  her  for  his  bride,  won  for  him  the 
affections  of  the  beautiful  Gemma  Dei  Donati,  a descend- 
ant of  a long  line  of  powerful  and  warlike  nobles.  His 
marriage  with  her  was  anything  else  but  a happy  one.  In 
the  revolution  of  Ghian  Della,  he  was  arrayed  in  the  ranks 
of  the  citizens  against  the  nobility.  He  was  elected  one 
of  the  priors  of  Florence,  but  when  the  opposite  party  came 
into  power  he  was  condemned  to  pay  a fine  for  an  alleged 
malversation  in  office.  He  was  sentenced  to  be  burned 
alive  if  taken  within  the  boundaries  of  the  Republic.  Thus 
cruelly  banished  from  Florence,  forsaken  by  his  friends  and 
relatives,  he  became  a homeless  wanderer  on  the  face  of  the 
earth.  He  stopped  awhile  in  Sienna  and  in  Bologna,  and 
with  the  Ghibelline  chieftain,  Fazoula,  on  the  mountains 
near  Ubini.  It  is  said  that  he  wandered  to  France  and  Eng- 
land, and  was  even  seen  in  Paris  and  at  Oxford.  Wherever 
he  went,  trouble,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  marked  his  foot- 
steps. He  has  himself  said  : 

“Through  almost  all  parts  where  the  Italian  is  spoken, 
a wanderer  and  wellnigh  a beggar,  I have  gone,  showing 
against  my  will  the  wound  of  fortune.  Truly  I have  been 
a vessel  without  sail  or  rudder,  driven  to  divers  ports, 
estuaries,  and  shores  by  that  hot  blast,  the  breath  of  poverty, 
and  I have  shown  myself  to  the  eyes  of  many  who,  per- 
haps, through  some  fame  of  me  had  imagined  me  in  quite 
another  guise,  in  whose  view  not  only  my  person  was  de- 
based, but  every  work  of  mine  done  or  yet  to  do  became 
valueless. ’ 1 

In  the  midst  of  his  sufferings  an  effort  was  made  to  pro- 
cure his  return  to  Florence.  Alas  ! that  genius  should  so 
often  draw  upon  itself  the  bitterest  persecution.  It  is  not 


DANTE. 


217 


the  gift  of  the  crowd.  It  is  an  original  and  a creative 
being,  ever  diffusing  its  light  upon  the  world,  yet  asking 
none  from  it.  It  is  often  idolized,  crowned  and  sceptred, 
clothed  in  purple  and  decked  with  glittering  jewels,  but 
oftener  trampled  under  foot,  and  pierced  by  the  shafts  of 
envy  and  jealousy,  which,  like  the  fabled  arrows  of  Acestes, 
take  fire  as  they  fly. 

The  conditions  on  which  Dante  was  allowed  to  return 
to  Florence  were  conceived  in  a spirit  of  the  bitterest  malig- 
nity. We  can  form  some  idea  of  the  loftiness  of  his  pride 
from  a letter  on  this  subject  addressed  to  a relative : 

“l  will  return,”  said  he,  “ with  hasty  steps,  if  you  or  any 
other  can  open  to  me  a way  that  shall  not  derogate  from 
the  fame  and  honor  of  Dante;  but  if  by  no  other  way 
Florence  can  be  entered,  then  Florence  f shall  never  see. 
What ! shall  I not  everywhere  enjoy  the  light  of  the  sun 
and  the  stars,  and  may  I not  seek  and  contemplate  in  every 
corner  of  the  earth,  under  the  canopy  of  heaven,  consoling 
and  delightful  truth,  without  first  rendering  myself  inglori- 
ous, nay,  infamous,  to  the  people  and  Republic  of  Flor- 
ence? Bread,  I hope,  will  not  fail  me.” 

A monument  was  erected  to  him  at  Ravenna,  where  he 
passed  the  last  days  of  his  life.  Florence  made  two  formal 
demands  for  his  remains,  but  the  city  that  had  given  him  a 
home  in  his  distress  could  not,  in  justice  to  itself,  grant  the 
request. 

In  person,  Dante  was  above  the  medium  height.  His 
complexion  was  of  a dark  olive.  His  eyes  were  dark  and 
piercing,  and  of  a singular  brilliancy  of  expression.  His 
countenance  was  resolute  and  determined,  and  ever  dis- 
played a shade  of  melancholy.  His  disposition  was  nat- 
urally mild  and  gentle,  but  became  harsh  and  irascible 
through  intense  mental  suffering. 

By  the  common  consent  of  mankind,  his  “Divina  Corn- 
media”  ranks  with  the  “ Iliad  ” and  “Odyssey.”  His 
19 


2l8 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Beatrice,  as  portrayed  with  her  flowing  hair  and  starry  eyes, 
and  cheeks  whose  roseate  hue  shames  the  glory  of  the  morn, 
whose  breath  is  the  perfume  of  the  opening  rose,  whose 
snowy  bosom  swells  with  love’s  own  sighs,  is  indeed  no 
mortal,  but  an  angel  of  light,  throned  among  the  supremely 
blest.  He  was  the  first  poet  of  his  country  who  gave  ele- 
gance of  style  and  diction  to  his  native  tongue.  He  has 
been  often  called  the  father  of  Italian  literature.  The 
statesmen  and  scholars  of  his  time  thought  it  an  evidence 
of  vulgarity  to  speak  or  write  any  other  language  than  the 
Latin ; but  Dante  found  in  the  speech  of  the  illiterate 
peasantry  the  sweetest  tones  of  music. 

“ Di  Monarchia”  and  the  “ Convito  ” are,  perhaps,  his 
most  popular  prose  works. 

Mr.  Norton  has  recently  translated  the  “VitaNuovo.” 
His  version  of  “ II  Dolarosa  ” is  greatly  admired. 

Shelley’s  translation  of  the  ode  entitled  “A  Wish,” 
which  we  give  below,  is  unequalled  for  the  exquisite  flow 
of  its  numbers : 

“ Guido,  I would  that  Lappo,  thou  and  I, 

Led  by  some  strong  enchantment,  might  ascend 

A magic  ship,  whose  charmed  sails  should  fly 

With  the  winds  at  will,  where’er  our  thoughts  might  wend, 

So  that  no  change  or  any  evil  chance 
Should  mar  our  joyous  voyage,  but  it  might  be 
That  even  satiety  should  still  enhance 
Between  our  hearts  their  strict  community; 

And  that  the  bounteous  wizard  then  would  place 
Vanna  and  Bice  and  my  gentle  love, 

Companions  of  our  wanderings,  and  would  grace 
With  passionate  tales,  wherever  we  might  rove, 

Our  time,  and  each  were  as  content  and  free 
As  I believe  that  thou  and  I should  be.” 


THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 
AWTHORNE  is,  we  think,  the  ablest  writer  of  pure 


fiction  in  the  language.  There  is  nothing  common- 
place about  him.  Unlike  most  novelists,  he  deals  less  with 
accidental  manifestations  than  with  universal  principles. 
His  characters  are  not  mere  shadowy  abstractions,  but 
“ veritable  human  souls,  though  dwelling  in  a far-off  world 
of  cloud-land.”  He  is  a purist  in  style,  and  is  at  all  times 
as  scrupulously  exact  in  his  choice  of  words  as  if  he  were 
writing  a complete  and  perfect  poem.  All  his  works,  from 
his  earliest  productions,  the  “Twice  Told  Tales,”  to  his 
later  efforts,  the  “ Marble  Faun”  and  “Our  Old  Home,” 
bear  upon  them  the  ineffaceable  stamp  of  genius,  and  ever 
awaken  ideas  of  beauty,  of  solemnity,  and  of  grandeur. 
The  Scarlet  Letter  is  perhaps  his  greatest  creation. 

There  is  a suggestiveness  and  an  originality  about  it  for 
which  we  may  search  in  vain  for  a parallel  outside  of  the 
writings  of  Shakspeare.  In  it  he  penetrates  into  the  recesses 
of  the  heart,  and  touches  the  secret  springs  of  our  inmost 
passions  and  desires.  It  is  a deep,  a strange,  a profound 
and  an  awful  tragedy,  in  which  the  severest  and  most  ap- 
palling sufferings  known  to  man  are  not  only  depicted  with 
wonderful  naturalness  and  intensity,  but  laid  bare  as  it  were 
to  the  gaze  even  of  persons  of  the  dullest  and  most  unim- 
aginative sensibilities.  Hawthorne  is  said  to  have  derived 
his  first  conception  of  this  story  from  reading  a sentence 


220 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


written  upon  an  old  yellow  parchment,  accidentally  found 
among  some  rubbish  at  the  custom-house  at  Boston,  decree- 
ing that  a woman  convicted  of  adultery  should  stand  upon 
the  platform  of  a pillory  in  front  of  the  market-place,  with 
the  letter  “A”  written  on  her  breast.  A friend  who  saw 
him  read  it  remarked  to  a gentleman  standing  near:  “We 
shall  hear,  I am  sure,  of  the  letter  ‘A’  again.”  Haw- 
thorne, in  the  introductory  chapter  to  the  romance,  not 
only  relates  the  story  of  reading  the  sentence,  but  says  that 
he  actually  found  a piece  of  fine  red  cloth,  much  worn  and 
faded  by  time  and  wear,  in  the  shape  of  the  letter  “A,” 
and  that  he  involuntarily  put  it  upon  his  breast,  and  seemed 
to  experience  a sensation  of  burning  heat,  as  if  the  letter 
were  not  of  scarlet  cloth  but  of  red-hot  iron,  and  that  he 
shuddered  and  let  it  fall  upon  the  floor.  He  added  that  it 
was  the  subject  of  meditation  for  many  an  hour  while  tracing 
to  and  fro  across  his  room,  or  traversing  with  a hundred- 
fold repetition  the  long  extent  from  the  front  door  of  the 
custom-house  to  the  side  entrance  and  back  again.  He 
felt  that  there  was  a mystic  and  a terrible  meaning  in  it 
most  worthy  of  interpretation. 

The  interpretation  he  gave  will  endure  forever.  He  has 
portrayed,  as  no  one  else  could  portray,  the  religious  faith 
of  the  Puritans.  In  depicting  it  in  all  its  hideous  deformity, 
he  does  not  exaggerate  anything  or  conceal  anything.  Its 
victim,  Hester  Prynne,  whether  or  not  a true  type  of  her 
class,  must  forever  be  associated  with  the  intolerance,  nar- 
row prejudices,  and  vindictive  feelings  of  the  bigoted  sect 
who  thought  themselves  especially  chosen  by  Heaven  to 
punish  the  guilty  with  the  most  damnable  instruments  of 
torture.  The  author,  in  discoursing  upon  the  hard  and  un- 
yielding severity  of  their  laws,  never  allows  his  indignation 
to  overmaster  his  judgment.  In  the  very  whirlwind  of  pas- 
sion he  begets  a temperance  which  gives  it  smoothness.  It 
has  been  urged  as  an  objectionable  feature  in  his  writings, 


THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 


221 


that  he  does  not  solve  moral  and  psychological  problems, 
“but  exhibits  their  bearings  and  workings  in  concrete  and 
living  forms,  for  experiment  and  illustration.”  Now  this 
is  exactly  what  we  most  admire  in  him.  It  is  a part  of  the 
peculiarity  of  genius  not  to  be  decisive,  to  raise  questions 
rather  than  to  settle  them.  Hawthorne  seems  to  care 
more  for  giving  his  readers  an  opportunity  of  discovering 
truth  for  themselves  than  to  point  it  out  to  them.  But 
sometimes,  we  admit,  he  abuses  this  power ; for  instance, 
when  he  refuses  to  tell  us  in  the  “ Marble  Faun  ” whether 
Donatello  has  pointed  and  furry  ears  or  not,  or  where  he 
excites  our  curiosity  by  concealing  the  cause  of  the  influ- 
ence of  the  ill-omened  Capuchin  over  the  courageous  and 
noble-hearted  Miriam ; or  in  the  following  comparison  of 
hatred  and  love  in  the  Scarlet  Letter  : “ It  is  a curious 
subject  of  observation  and  inquiry  whether  hatred  or  love 
be  not  the  same  thing  at  bottom.  Each  in  its  utmost  de- 
velopment supposes  a high  degree  of  intimacy  and  heart- 
knowledge  ; each  renders  one  individual  dependent  for  the 
food  of  his  affections  and  spiritual  life  upon  another ; each 
leaves  the  passionate  lover,  or  the  no  less  passionate  hater, 
forlorn  and  desolate  by  the  withdrawal  of  his  subject.  Phi- 
losophically considered,  therefore,  the  two  passions  seem, 
essentially  the  same,  except  that  one  happens  to  be  seen 
in  a celestial  radiance,  and  the  other  in  a dusky  and  lurid 
glow.” 

There  is  something  about  Hawthorne’s  children  that 
affects  us  with  singular  love  and  admiration.  They  are  not 
prodigies,  like  Paul  Dombey  and  Elinor  Trench,  but  have 
all  the  natural  bloom,  freshness,  and  simplicity  of  child- 
hood. They  are  imbued  with  a spell  of  infinite  variety. 
They  breathe  an  atmosphere  of  love  and  beauty,  of  enchant- 
ing hopes  and  dreams.  We  feel  that  theirs  is  the  only 
flowery  path,  the  golden  period  of  existence,  the  unclouded 
dawn  of  life.  We  do  not  find  anything  inconsistent  even 
19  * 


222 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


in  the  conduct  of  little  Pearl,  one  of  the  most  shadowy, 
ethereal,  and  mystical  of  all  the  author’s  creations,  when 
we  recollect  that  “she  seemed  the  unpremeditated  offshoot 
of  a passionate  moment,”  and  that  “the  child’s  nature  had 
something  wrong  in  it,  which  continually  betokened  that 
she  had  been  born  amiss,  the  effluence  of  her  mother’s  law- 
less passion;”  unless,  indeed,  we  except  the  terrible  scene 
at  the  brook  side,  where  she  refused  to  come  to  her  mother, 
though  called  in  accents  of  honeyed  sweetness,  until  she 
placed  the  scarlet  letter  upon  her  breast,  but  stood  motion- 
less, pointing  with  her  finger  where  she  was  accustomed  to 
see  it.  The  author,  however,  endeavors  to  reconcile  her 
conduct  in  the  following  reflections  of  the  mother  : “ Chil- 
dren will  not  abide  any,  the  slightest  change  in  the  accus- 
tomed aspect  of  things  that  are  daily  before  their  eyes. 
Pearl  misses  something  which  she  has  always  seen  me  wear.  ” 

We  know  of  nothing  in  the  whole  range  of  literature  that 
equals  the  sufferings  of  the  mother  when  she  again  fastens 
the  letter  on  her  breast,  feeling  that  she  must  bear  the  tor- 
ture a while  longer.  “ Hopefully  but  a moment  ago  as 
Hester  had  spoken  of  drowning  it  in  the  deep  sea,  there 
was  a sense  of  inevitable  doom  upon  her  as  she  thus  received 
back  this  deadly  symbol  from  the  hand  of  fate.  She  had 
’filing  it  into  infinite  space  ! She  had  drawn  an  hour’s  free 
breath  ! and  here  again  was  the  scarlet  misery  glittering 
on  the  old  spot ! So  it  ever  is,  whether  thus  typified  or 
not,  that  an  evil  deed  invests  itself  with  the  character  of 
doom.” 

We  have  a hint  at  the  conclusion  of  this  mystical  romance 
that  little  Pearl  grew  to  womanhood,  and  that  her*wild, 
rich  nature  had  been  softened  and  subdued,  and  made 
capable  of  the  gentlest  happiness.  The  description  of 
Hester’s  repentance  is  so  full  of  divine  philosophy  that  no 
one  can  rise  from  its  perusal  without  a purer  and  deeper 
sympathy  for  the  weaknesses  of  humanity. 


THE  SCARLET  LETTER. 


223 


“ But  there  was  more  real  life  for  Hester  Prynne,  here 
in  New  England,  than  in  that  unknown  region  where  Pearl 
had  found  a home.  Here  had  been  her  sin  ; here,  her  sor- 
row; and  here  was  yet  to  be  her  penitence.  She  had 
returned,  therefore,  and  resumed,  of  her  own  free  will, 
for  not  the  sternest  magistrate  of  that  iron  period  would 
have  imposed  it  — resumed  the  symbol  of  which  we  have 
related  so  dark  a tale.  Never  afterward  did  it  quit  her 
bosom.  But,  in  the  lapse  of  the  toilsome,  thoughtful,  and 
self-devoted  years  that  made  up  Hester’s  life,  the  scarlet 
letter  ceased  to  be  a stigma  which  attracted  the  world’s 
scorn  and  bitterness,  and  became  a type  of  something  to 
be  sorrowed  over,  and  looked  upon  with  awe,  yet  with 
reverence  too.  And  as  Hester  Prynne  had  no  selfish  ends, 
nor  lived  in  any  measure  for  her  own  profit  and  enjoy- 
ment, people  brought  all  their  sorrows  and  perplexities, 
and  besought  her  counsel,  as  one  who  had  herself  gone 
through  a mighty  trouble.  Women,  more  especially  — in 
the  continually  recurring  trials  of  wounded,  wasted, 
wronged,  misplaced,  or  erring  and  sinful  passion  — or  with 
the  dreary  burden  of  a heart  unyielded,  because  unvalued 
and  unsought — came  to  Hester’s  cottage,  demanding  why 
they  were  so  wretched,  and  what  the  remedy  ! Hester 
comforted  and  counselled  them  as  best  she  might.  She 
assured  them,  too,  of  her  firm  belief,  that  at  some  brighter 
period,  when  the  world  should  have  grown  ripe  for  it,  in 
Heaven’s  own  time,  a new  truth  would  be  revealed,  in  order 
to  establish  the  whole  relation  between  man  and  woman 
on  a surer  ground  of  mutual  happiness.  Earlier  in  life, 
Hester  had  vainly  imagined  that  she  herself  might  be  the 
destined  prophetess,  but  had  long  since  recognized  the 
impossibility  that  any  mission  of  divine  and  mysterious 
truth  should  be  confided  to  a woman  stained  with  sin, 
bowed  down  with  shame,  or  even  burdened  with  a life-long 
sorrow.  The  angel  and  apostle  of  the  coming  revelation 


224 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


must  be  a woman,  indeed,  but  lofty,  pure,  and  beautiful ; 
and  wise,  moreover,  not  through  dusky  grief,  but  the  ethe- 
real medium  of  joy ; and  showing  how  sacred  love  should 
make  us  happy,  by  the  truest  test  of  a life  successful  to  such 
an  end.” 

The  entire  book  is  filled  with  similar  passages,  illustra- 
tive of  the  author’s  delicate  sentiment  and  mystical  imagi- 
nation, as  well  as  of  his  suggestiveness  and  originality. 
He  has  the  purest  and  loftiest  ideas  of  love  and  virtue. 
Unlike  Thackeray,  he  never  indulges  in  petty  and  con- 
temptible sneers  at  women,  nor  dwells  with  exquisite  de- 
light upon  their  “ timorous  debasement  and  self-humilia- 
tion.” Redoes  not  stop  to  prove  that  “ they  are  born 
timid  and  tyrants,”  and  are  terrified  into  humility,  and 
bullied  and  frightened  into  devotion. 


JANAUSCHEK. 

IT  is  somewhat  singular  that  we  should  find  among  the 
Germans  the  greatest  delineator  of  one  of  the  sublim- 
est  of  Shakspeare’s  characters.  We  have  always  had  the 
highest  appreciation  of  German  intellect,  but  we  thought 
that  they  knew  more  about  everything  else  than  about  act- 
ing. We  knew  well  enough  that  they  had  taught  us  some- 
thing about  the  arts  and  sciences,  about  criticism,  mechan- 
ism, aesthetics,  poetry,  philosophy,  and  religion ; but  until 
we  saw  Janauschek,  we  could  not  divest  ourselves  of  the 
idea  that  they  were  awkward  and  clumsy. 

Schlegel  had  but  an  indifferent  opinion  of  German  act- 
ing. He  said  that  their  theatre  was  at  a very  low  ebb. 
He  did  not  attribute  this  deficiency  to  a want  of  talent 
among  his  people  for  dramatic  art,  but  to  a want  of  proper 
appreciation  and  cultivation  of  it.  In  speaking  of  German 
plays,  he  says  “ there  is  too  much  romance  in  them,”  and 
that  “the  word  romantic  is  too  often  profaned  by  being 
lavished  upon  rude  and  monstrous  abortions.’ ’ 

If  the  Germans  have  not  produced  great  actors,  they 
have  certainly  produced  some  of  the  greatest  critics  of 
Shakspeare,  if  indeed  they  were  not  the  first  to  catch  the 
light  of  his  genius  and  reflect  it  upon  the  world. 

Hazlitt,  in  speaking  of  German  criticism,  says,  “lam 
free  to  confess  that  my  national  pride  was  wounded  at  Ihe 
reflection  that  it  was  reserved  for  foreign  critics  to  give 

225 


226 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


reasons  for  the  faith  that  the  English  have  in  Shakspeare.” 
Hazlitt’s  admiration  for  Schlegel  is  unbounded.  He 
says  that  “no  one  has' shown  the  same  enthusiastic  admi- 
ration for  Shakspeare’s  genius,  or  the  same  philosophical 
acuteness  in  pointing  out  his  characteristic  excellence.” 
These  compliments  to  Schlegel  are  richly  deserved,  for 
his  criticisms  will  compare  favorably  with  those  of  any  of 
the  English  critics.  Lessing,  we  believe,  was  the  earliest, 
if  not  indeed  the  greatest  of  the  German  Shakspearian 
scholars.  But  Herder  in  the  “ Blatter  von  Deutscher  Art,” 
and  Kunst,  and  Tieck  in  “Letters  on  Shakspeare,”  and 
Goethe  in  “ Wilhelm  Meister,”  and  Schiller,  and  Schelling, 
are  other  august  examples  of  the  German  appreciation  of 
Shakspeare’s  genius.  Our  indebtedness  to  German  criti- 
cism will  be  more  fully  appreciated  when  we  recollect  how 
unfavorably  Shakspeare  has  been  treated  by  some  of  the 
ablest  English  scholars  and  authors.  For  instance,  Dr. 
Johnson  sneers  at  him,  and  says  that  his  pathos  is  not  nat- 
ural, but  far-fetched  and  full  of  affectation,  and  that  his 
characters  are  mere  “species,  instead  of  individuals.” 
Hume,  the  historian,  also  vents  his  spleen  against  him  who 
is  the  first  in  the  world’s  literature,  and  in  the  appreciation 
of  the  arts,  sciences,  religions,  knowledge,  and  philosophy; 
who  has  conjured  up  landscapes  of  immortal  fragrance  and 
freshness  and  beauty,  and  peopled  them  with  beings  who 
have  displayed  all  the  varied  and  complicated  phases  of 
humanity,  and  whose  thoughts,  speeches,  words,  sentiments, 
passions,  and  imaginings  have  become  the  common  prop- 
erty of  mankind.  Hume  says,  “It  is  in  vain  that  we  look 
into  Shakspeare  for  either  purity  or  simplicity  of  diction. 
His  total  ignorance  of  all  theatrical  art  and  conduct,  how- 
ever material  a defect,  yet,  as  it  affects  the  spectator  rather 
than  the  reader,  we  can  more  easily  excuse  than  that  want 
of  taste  which  prevails  in  his  productions.” 
j Whether  or  not  we  acknowledge  the  supremacy  of  Ger- 


JAN  AUSCHEK. 


227 


man  criticism  in  regard  to  Shakspeare,  we  must  acknowledge! 
the  grandeur,  power,  and  beauty  and  pathos  of  Jan  auschek’ s 
acting  in  Lady  Macbeth,  which  is,  perhaps,  the  least  under- 
stood of  all  Shakspeare’s  characters. 

Lady  Macbeth  is  generally  regarded  as  a mere  blood- 
thirsty and  despicable  female  fury,  but  Janauschek  has 
given  us  an  insight  into  those  sweet  and  tender  and  gentle 
emotions  of  the  soul  which  made  the  Thane  of  Cawdor 
regard  and  address  her  as  the  dearest  partner  of  his  great- 
ness. 

Some  years  ago  we  spoke  of  Janauschek  in  connection 
with  Ristori,  but  there  is  really  no  comparison  between 
them.  Ristori  may  have  strength,  power,  beauty,  and 
originality  of  conception,  but  she  lacks  the  culture,  the 
refinement,  the  intellect,  the  delicacy  of  feeling,  the  pro- 
found thought  and  depth  of  penetration,  the  subtle  and 
keen  analysis  of  character,  the  wonderfully  varied  emotions 
and  passions,  the  energy,  the  spirit,  the  fire  and  genius  of 
her  rival. 

We  have  said  that  there  is  no  comparison  to  be  made  be- 
tween these  two  great  artists,  but  we  are  reminded  that  both 
of  them  lend  their  splendid  gifts  to  the  delineation  of  such 
sensational  dramas  as  Giacometta’s  “Elizabeth.”  This 
abominable  play  has  been  translated  into  the  French,  the 
German,  the  Spanish,  and  the  English  languages,  and  has 
been  made  popular  in  this  country  by  the  acting  of  Mrs. 
Lander,  Ristori,  and  Janauschek.  It  abounds  in  ridicu- 
lous and  sensational  passages,  and  presents  little  or  no 
claim  to  either  dramatic  art  or  literary  merit.  There  is  one 
scene  in  the  third  act  which  strikes  us  as  particularly  objec- 
tionable. It  is  where  Elizabeth  is  represented  as  dictating 
two  letters  at  once,  one  to  the  Earl  of  Leicester  and  the 
other  to  Chief- Justice  Popham.  She  is  represented  as  de- 
livering her  words  in  an  arrogant  and  imperious  tone,  and 
at  the  conclusion  she  pronounces  her  name,  Elizabeth,  with 


228 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


sudden  and  startling  effect.  The  strangest  part  about  it  is 
that  this  scene  is  always  vehemently  applauded  — but  per- 
haps, after  all,  not  so  strange  as  that  a gifted  and  highly 
cultivated  artist  should  abuse  her  talents  in  thus  attempting 
to  display  such  clap-trap  nonsense.  Elizabeth,  though  en- 
dowed with  more  than  the  usual  vanity  of  her  sex,  attached 
her  name,  in  all  probability,  to  public  documents,  letters, 
and  state  papers  with  very  little  parade,  at  least  without  in- 
dulging in  such  unnecessary  bombast  and  pomposity. 

But  to  return  to  Lady  Macbeth.  A short  time  since 
Janauschek  personated  this  character  at  the  Boston  The- 
atre. She  was  supported  by  Edwin  Booth  as  Macbeth. 
The  occasion  of  two  such  brilliant  stars  appearing  together 
was  indeed  a rare  one.  It  was  looked  upon  as  an  epoch  in 
the  history  of  the  American  stage.  More  than  four  thou- 
sand persons  were  present.  The  audience  extended  to  the 
distant  and  almost  suburban  amphitheatre  of  that  magnifi- 
cent building.  Poets,  authors,  scholars,  orators,  and  states- 
men were  among  the  vast  auditory  that  assembled  to  witness 
;he  performance.  The  acting  that  followed  revealed  beau- 
ties iu  Shakspeare  almost  undreamed  of  before.  Booth’s 
'Hamlet  was  no  longer  considered  his  greatest  character. 
The  ablest  critics  in  Boston  were  forced  to  acknowledge 
that,  if  his  Hamlet  was  the  most  refined  and  natural  crea- 
tion, his  Macbeth  was  the  most  vigorous  and  brilliant. 

Booth  never,  perhaps,  played  so  well  before,  unless  we 
except  his  acting  on  the  occasion  of  the  production  of  Mac- 
beth for  the  first  time  at  his  new  theatre  in  New  York. 

Such  a spell  of  enchantment  was  thrown  around  the  play, 
that  even  the  weird  sisters  appeared  not  as  fanciful  creations, 
_but  as  fearful  realities. 

r The  scene  previous  to  Duncan’s  murder  was  grandly  por- 
trayed. We  felt  that  Lady  Macbeth  indeed  shamed  her 
husband  with  a superhuman  audacity  when  Janauschek 
delivered  the  following: 


JANAUSCHEK. 


229 


“ What  beast  was ’t,  then. 


That  made  you  break  the  enterprise  to  me  ? 

When  you  durst  do  it,  then  you  were  a man ; 

And,  to  be  more  than  what  you  were,  you  would 
Be  so  much  more  the  man.  Nor  time,  nor  place, 

Did  then  adhere,  and  yet  you  would  make  both : 

They  have  made  themselves,  and  that  their  fitness  now 
Does  unmake  you.  I have  given  suck,  and  know 
How  tender  ’t  is  to  love  the  babe  that  milks  me : 

I would,  while  it  was  smiling  in  my  face, 

Have  pluck’d  my  nipple  from  his  boneless  gums, 

And  dash’d  the  brains  out,  had  I so  sworn 
As  you  have  done  to  this  ! ” 

It  is  said  that  Mrs.  Siddons,  in  her  personation  of  Lady 
Macbeth,  uttered  these  horrible  words  in  a demoniacal 
scream,  as  if  frightened  to  madness  by  the  audacity  of  her 
language.  Upon  which  Hudson  says,  “We  can  easily  con- 
ceive how  a spasmodic  action  of  fear  might  lend  her  the 
appearance  of  superhuman  or  inhuman  boldness.  At  all 
events,  it  should  be  observed  that  Lady  Macbeth’s  energy 
and  intensity  of  purpose  overbears  the  feelings  of  the 
woman,  and  that  some  of  her  words  are  spoken  more  as 
suiting  the  former  than  as  springing  from  the  latter;  and 
her  convulsive  struggle  of  feeling  against  that  overbear- 
ing violence  of  purpose  might  well  be  expressed  by  a 
scream.”  * — 

When  Janauschek  utters  this  speech,  her  voice  suddenly 
assumes  a deep  and  husky  tone.  There  is  something  almost 
unearthly  about  it.  Her  words  seem  to  come  from  her  lips 
shivering  with  horror,  conveying  the  loftiest  ideas  of  impas- 
sioned scorn  — infinitely,  we  think,  more  effective  than  any 
maniacal  scream,  and  which  might  well  overcome  Mac- 
beth’s determination  “to  proceed  no  further  in  this  busi- 
ness.” — 1 


It  would,  however,  be  a difficult  matter  to  determ ii 
which  scene  is  the  grander : the  one  which  we  have  endea 


20 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


J 


230 

ored  to  describe,  or  that  in  which  the  following  dialogue 
takes  place : 

“ Lady  M.  Give  him  tending  — 

He  brings  great  news. 

The  raven  himself  is  hoarse, 

That  croaks  the  fatal  entrance  of  Duncan 
Under  my  battlements.  Come,  you  spirits 
That  tend  on  mortal  thoughts,  unsex  me  here ; 

And  fill  me,  from  the  crown  to  the  toe,  top-full 
Of  direst  cruelty  ! make  thick  my  blood, 

Stop  up  th’  access  and  passage  to  remorse; 

That  no  compunctious  visitings  of  nature 
Shake  my  fell  purpose;  nor  keep  pace  between 
The  effect,  and  it!  Come  to  my  woman’s  breasts, 

And  take  my  milk  for  gall,  you  murdering  ministers, 

Wherever  in  your  sightless  substances 

You  wait  on  nature’s  mischief!  Come,  thick  night, 

And  pall  thee  in  the  dunnest  smoke  of  hell ! 

That  my  keen  knife  see  not  the  wound  it  makes, 

Nor  Heaven  peep  through  the  blanket  of  the  dark, 

To  cry,  4 Hold,  hold  ! ’ — 

Enter  Macbeth. 

Great  Glamis ! worthy  Cawdor  ! 

Greater  than  both,  by  the  all-hail  hereafter  ! 

Thy  letters  have  transported  me  beyond 
This  ignorant  present,  and  I feel  now 
The  future  in  the  instant. 

Macb.  My  dearest  love, 

Duncan  comes  here  to-night. 

Lady  M.  And  when  goes  hence? 

Macb.  To-morrow  — as  he  purposes. 

Lady  M,  Oh,  never 
Shall  sun  that  morrow  see! 

Your  face,  my  Thane,  is  as  a book,  where  men 
May  read  strange  matters.  — To  beguile  the  time, 

Look  like  the  time ; bear  welcome  in  your  eye, 

Your  hand  your  tongue;  look  like  the  innocent  flower, 

But  be  the  serpent  under  it.  He  that’s  coming 
Must  be  provided  for : and  you  shall  put 


JANAUSCHEK. 


231 


This  night’s  great  business  into  my  dispatch ; 
Which  shall  to  all  our  days  and  nights  to  come 
Give  solely  sovereign  sway  and  masterdom.” 


Janauschek’ s genius  is  probably  better  displayed  in  the 
sleep-walking  scene  than  in  any  other  in  the  play.  Booth  \ 
himself  said  to  us  that  this  scene  could  not  be  surpassed, 
and  that  Janauschek  was  the  only  actress  he  ever  saw 
who  seemed  capable  of  comprehending  the  lofty  heroism, 
and  womanly  refinement  combined  with  the  unscrupulous 
daring  and  demoniacal  fury  and  firmness  of  the  character^ 
In  this  scene  her  form  seems  wasted  with  torturing  and 
sleepless  midnight  watchings,  and  the  glazed  glamour  of 
her  eyes  display  terribly  upon  her  haggard  countenance 
the  ever-burning  fever  of  remorse,  when  she,  “open-eyed 
yet  sightless,”  endeavored  to  free  her  hands  from  the  im- 
aginary spots  of  blood,  and  exclaims  : 


“ Out,  damned  spot!  out,  I say! — One;  two;  Why,  then,  ’t  is 
time  to  do ’t ! — Hell  is  murky  ! — Fie,  my  lord,  fie  ! a soldier,  and  j 
afeard  ? What  need  we  fear  who  knows  it,  when  none  can  call  our 
power  to  account?  — Yet  who  would  have  thought  the  old  man  to 
have  had  so  much  blood  in  him  ? ” 

She  repeats  the  words  “Hell  is  murky”  with  compressed 
lips,  and  their  horrible  mockery  is  indeed  enough  to  sicken 
the  soul. 

This  scene  forms  a striking  contrast  to  the  one  where 
she  endeavors  to  relieve  Macbeth  of  “ thick-coming  fan- 
cies,” when  she  says  — 

“ How  now,  my  lord  ! why  do  you  keep  alone, 

Of  sorriest  fancies  your  companions  making,  — 

Using  those  thoughts,  which  should  indeed  have  died 
With  them  they  think  on  ? Things  without  remedy 
Should  be  without  regard:  what’s  done  is  done.” 


Or  in  the  scene  where  she  says  — 


232 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


J 


“ Come  on, 

Gentle  my  lord,  sleek  o’er  your  rugged  looks, 

Be  bright  and  jovial  amongst  your  guests  to-night.” 

Janauschek  does  her  utmost  to  portray  the  tender  sym- 
pathy ever  springing  up  between  Lady  Macbeth  and  her 
unhappy  husband. 

How  different  from  the  portraiture  of  Mrs.  Kemble,  who 
can  see  but  little  in  Lady  Macbeth’s  character  save  blood, 
the  feeling  of  blood,  the  sight  of  blood,  and  the  smell  of 
blood,  thus  divesting  her  of  those  womanly  touches  of  na- 
ture so  apparent  when  Macbeth  leans  upon  her  for  support, 
and  says  — 

“ O,  full  of  scorpions  is  my  mind,  dear  wife ! ” 
and  when  she  tells  him  — 


“You  lack  the  season  of  all  natures,  sleep.” 

But  we  need  not  dwell  further  upon  Janauschek’s 
acting.  It  is  sufficient  to  say  that  her  Lady  Macbeth 
is  such  a creation  of  genius  that  the  students  of  Shakspeare 
will  be  grateful  for  the  insight  she  has  given  them  into  the 
soul  of  that  terrible  being,  who  was  the  prop  and  stay 
of  “ Bellona’s  bridegroom ; ” that  doomed  and  daunt- 
less spirit  who  would  not  “ play  false,”  and  yet  would 
“ wrongly  win.” 

Janauschek  has  for  years  been  a very  close  student  of 
modern  languages.  We  rejoice  to  say  that  she  has  now  com- 
pleted her  studies  in  English,  and  will  shortly  give  the  peo- 
ple of  this  country  an  opportunity  of  witnessing  her  sublime 
dramatic  portraitures  in  that  language.  She  is  of  Slavic 
descent,  and  it  is  said  that  the  people  of  the  Slavic  race 
display  a wonderful  gift  for  the  acquisition  of  languages. 
Kossuth  sprung  from  this  race,  and  perhaps  from  this  fact 
we  can  account  for  the  facility  with  which  he  mastered  the 


JANAUSCHEK. 


233 


different  living  languages  after  he  had  reached  years  of 
maturity.  

We  had  the  pleasure  some  time  since  of  listening  to 
Madam  Janauschek  read  a few  passages  from  some  of  the 
best  English  dramas,  and  we  are  free  to  confess  that  we 
did  not,  in  a single  instance,  detect  her  foreign  accent. 
Indeed,  her  pronunciation  is  much  better  than  that  of 
most  of  our  countrymen.  We  have  often  thought  what  an 
admirable  teacher  of  English  she  would  make  for  Mr.  Fech- 
ter,  the  celebrated  London  actor. 

We  do  not  doubt  that  her  dramatic  triumphs  in  English 
will  be  even  more  brilliant  and  enduring  than  those  in  her 
native  tongue.  She  is  one  of  the  most  accomplished  I 
women  we  have  ever  known.  There  is  scarcely  an  author  , 
of  any  note  with  whose  works  she  is  not  familiar.  She  is 
as  well  acquainted  with  the  writings  of  Milton,  and  Dry- 
den,  and  Pope,  and  Addison,  as  she  is  with  those  of 
Goethe,  and  Schiller,  and  Richter.  Her  conversational 
powers  are  really  extraordinary.  They  are  brilliant.  They 
are  wonderfully  impressive.  There  is  no  affectation  or 
conceit  about  her.  She  impresses  every  one  around  her 
with  the  refinement  and  purity  of  her  principles.  The 
world  bestows  only  faint  praise  upon  her  in  calling  her 
“the  great  actress  of  the  intellect,’ ’ for  she  is  the  actress 
of  the  heart  and  feeling,  as  well  as  of  the  intellect.  In- 
deed, she  does  not  act  her  characters  at  all.  She  looks 
them,  breathes  them,  personates  them. 


20* 


THACKERAY, 


WITH  A GLANCE  AT  VANITY  FAIR. 

HE  leading  magazines  and  periodicals  of  Europe  and 


of  this  country  have  within  the  last  few  years  been 
filled  with  essays  and  criticisms  upon  the  life  and  genius  of 
Thackeray.  One  class  of  his  admirers  proclaim  him  to 
be  the  greatest  'novelist  who  ever  lived,  and  another  the 
greatest  humorist  and  satirist.  As  a critic  and  essayist  he 
has  been  placed  above  Goldsmith,  Macaulay,  Carlyle,  and 
Hazlitt.  His  poetry  is  said  to  be  as  good  as  Pope’s  and 
Beranger’s,  and  better  than  Suckling’s,  or  Pryor’s,  or 
Gay’s,  or  Thomson’s,  or  Southey’s.  The  “ Chronicle  of 
the  Drum,”  “ The  Cane-Bottomed  Chair,”  and  the  ballad 
of  “ Bouillabaisse,”  go  the  rounds  of  the  press  as  if  written 
but  yesterday.  His  epigrams  and  witty  repartees  speak 
volumes  of  sentiment.  Not  a few  of  his  novels  have  passed 
into  history. 

The  characters  in  “ Vanity  Fair,”  in  “Pendennis,”  in 
the  “Virginians,”  in  “Esmond,”  and  in  the  “New- 
comes,”  are  not  only  distinct  and  palpable  creations,  but 
are  discussed  and  talked  about  like  living  human  beings  of 
flesh  and  blood. 

Nearly  everything  he  has  written  is  tremulous  with 
thought  and  emotion.  He  seems  ever  to  display  the 
keenest  perception  of  truth,  of  beauty,  and  wisdom.  Plis 
tenacious  and  penetrating  intellect,  his  depths  of  sympathy 


THACKERAY. 


235 


And  consciousness,  his  mingled  gayety  and  earnestness  of 
sentiment,  and  his  subtle  attractiveness  of  manner,  are  not 
surpassed  by  Scott,  or  Bulwer,  or  Dickens.  He  began  his 
literary  career  at  Cambridge,  in  1829,  by  editing  a series 
of  papers  called  “The  Snob;  a Literary  and  Scientific 
Journal.”  In  these  papers  he  made  some  attempt  at  wit 
and  humor,  by  committing  droll  errors  in  orthography  and 
by  aggrandizing  insignificant  things.  He  soon  became  a 
contributor  to  the  London  press  and  to  Fraser' s Magazine. 
He  wrote  for  the  latter  “ Fitzboodle’s  Confessions,”  the 
“Fatal  Boots,”  and  the  “ Hoggarty  Diamond.”  These 
efforts  displayed  talent  of  no  common  order,  but  attracted 
very  little  attention.  He  struggled  almost  ineffectually 
through  weary  years  of  obscurity,  of  neglect,  and  hardship, 
before  he  derived  any  reputation  or  profit  from  his  labors. 
His  greatest  work,  Vanity  Fair,  had  been  rejected  by 
several  magazines,  and  he  was  compelled  to  publish  it  in 
monthly  numbers,  after  the  fashion  of  Dickens’s  stories.  Its 
success  was  at  first  doubted,  but  before  it  was  completed  he 
became  known  as  one  of  the  ablest  writers  of  his  time. 
Vanity  Fair  presents  a dreary  picture  of  life,  but,  for  aught 
we  know,  a true  one.  The  characters  that  figure  in  it  are 
drawn,  not  from  the  imagination,  but  from  observation  and 
experience.  It  is  a pity  that  such  villains  as  Lord  Steyne 
exist  in  the  world,  but  certainly  the  author  is  entitled  to 
much  credit  for  portraying  them.  We  have  met  in  real  life 
an  exact  prototype  of  the  weak  and  dissipated  Captain 
Crawley,  and  have  derived  no  little  satisfaction  from  the 
manner  in  which  we  have  been  taught  to  regard  him.  The 
resemblance  is  carried  so  far  that  he  never  wrote  home  in 
his  life  except  when  he  wanted  money,  and  then  his  letters 
were  full  of  dashes  and  bad  grammar,  and  doubtless  he 
spelled  4 beseech’  with  an  a,  and  c earliest’  without  one. 
We  do  not  know  whether  or  not  he  is  capable  of  exhibiting 
the  same  kind  of  courage  that  Captain  Crawley  did  in  the 


236 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


encounter  with  Lord  Steyne,  but  we  are  quite  sure  that  lie 
is  mean  enough  to  accept  favors  from  one  who  had  sought 
to  ruin  him. 

The  good-natured  and  reckless  spendthrift,  George  Os- 
borne, is  a perfectly  natural  character.  So  is,  also,  the  vain 
and  fat  Joseph  Sedley. 

The  power,  beauty,  and  interest  of  the  story,  however, 
cluster  around  the  heroine,  Becky  Sharp.  She  is  the  most 
original,  wonderful,  and  varied  of  all  the  author’s  creations. 
She  is  a perfect  type  of  a’ class  of  bold,  ambitious,  cunning, 
intriguing,  and  selfish  women.  All  the  other  characters  in 
the  book,  wonderfully  natural  and  life-like  as  they  are,  be- 
come, when  brought  in  contact  with  her,  but  supernumerary 
beings,  or,  as  it  were,  mere  auxiliaries  for  the  purpose  of 
aiding  in  the  development  of  the  circumstances  by  which 
she  is  surrounded.  She  is  constantly  presenting  some  new 
phase  in  humanity,  or  illustrating  some  great  lesson  in  moral 
and  ethical  philosophy.  Whenever  “she  made  a little  cir- 
cle for  herself,  with  incredible  toils  and  labor,  somebody 
came  and  swept  it  down  rudely,  and  she  had  all  her  work 
to  begin  over  again.”  All  her  powers  of  fascination,  her 
artful  appeals  for  sympathy,  her  exclamation,  “ Poor  little 
me!”  her  wit,  her  beauty,  her  grace,  ease,  and  abandon, 
her  archness  and  simplicity  of  manner,  and  girlish  light- 
ness of  sentiment,  fail  to  soften  the  dark  shades  of  her  char- 
acter, or  make  us  wish  for  her  a better  fate.  She  neglects 
her  child,  and  lives  only  for  the  gratification  of  the  mean- 
est and  lowest  desires.  She  sells  her  virtue  without  even 
having  the  excuse  of  love  or  passion.  Thackeray  was  in 
his  element  when  he  conceived  and  portrayed  her.  He 
has  done  nothing  else  half  so  well.  With  all  our  admira- 
tion for  his  genius,  we  must  confess  that  he  delineates  the 
character  of  a depraved  being  a thousand  times  better  than 
he  does  that  of  a good  one. 

Look,  for  a moment,  at  Becky  Sharp’s  way  of  teasing 


THACKERAY. 


237 


one  of  her  rivals.  Becky  has  been  flirting  with  Mr.  George 
Osborne,  but  thus  unblushingly  addresses  his  wife,  who  is 
smarting  under  all  the  pangs  of  jealousy : 

“ ‘For  God’s  sake,  stop  him  from  gambling,  or  he  will 
ruin  himself.  Why  don’t  you  come  to  us  of  an  evening, 
instead  of  moping  at  home  with  that  Captain  Dobbin? 
I dare  say  he  is  trts-aimable ; but  how  could  one  love  a man 
with  feet  of  such  a size?  Your  husband’s  feet  are  darlings. 
Here  he  comes.  Where  have  you  been,  wretch?  Here  is 
Emmy  crying  her  eyes  out  for  you.  Are  you  coming  to 
fetch  me  for  the  quadrille?  ’ And  she  left  her  bouquet  and 
shawl  by  Amelia’s  side  and  tripped  off  with  George  to  dance. 
Women  only  know  how  to  wound  so.  There  is  poison  on 
the  tips  of  their  little  shafts  which  stings  a thousand  times 
jnore  than  a man' s blunter  weapon . Our  poor  Emmy,  who 
never  hated,  never  sneered  in  all  her  life,  was  powerless  in 
the  hands  of  her  remorseless  little  enemy.” 

The  author  has,  indeed,  a terrible  insight  into  the  hearts 
of  frivolous  and  intriguing  women.  He  is  almost  enthu- 
siastic in  his  description  of  their  base  and  ignoble  passions. 
He  not  only  describes  their  meanness,  their  spitefulness, 
their  jealousy,  and  their  selfishness,  with  painful  minute- 
ness, but  actually  rips  them  to  pieces.  It  is  believed  that 
he  could  not  portray  a good  woman  at  all.  He  attempted 
it  in  Ethel  Newcome  and  in  Amelia  Sedley,  two  of  his  most 
prominent  characters,  and  utterly  failed.  He  made  one  a 
flirt  and  the  other  a fool.  He  has  not  escaped  censure  for 
such  sermons  as  the  following  in  ‘ ‘ Vanity  Fair”  and 
“ The  Newcomes:  ” 

“I  know  few  things  more  affecting  than  that  timorous 
debasement  and  self-humiliation  of  a woman.  How  she 
owns  it  is  she  and  not  the  man  who  is  guilty ! How  she 
takes  all  the  faults  on  her  side  ! How  she  courts  in  a man- 
ner punishment  for  the  wrongs  which  she  has  not  committed, 
and  persists  in  shielding  the  real  culprit ! It  is  those  who 


238 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


injure  women  who  get  the  most  kindness  from  them.  They 
are  born  timid  and  tyrants,  and  maltreat  those  who  are 
humblest  before  them.” 

“To  coax,  to  flatter,  and  befool  some  one  is  every 
woman’s  business ; she  is  none  if  she  declines  this  office. 
But  men  are  not  provided  with  such  powers  of  humbug  or 
endurance.  They  perish  and  pine  away  miserably  when 
bored,  or  they  shrink  off  to  the  club  or  public-house  for 
comfort.” 

The  closing  scenes  in  Vanity  Fair,  in  which  Becky 
Sharp’s  vagabond  career  is  described,  are,  beyond  all  ques- 
tion, the  finest  in  the  book.  Thackeray  was  evidently  a 
man  of  the  world  — an  observer  rather  than  a philosopher. 
He  studied  men  and  things  more  than  he  did  books,  or  else 
he  could  not  have  pictured  so  vividly  Joseph  Sedley,  creak- 
ing and  puffing  up  the  stairs  which  led  above  the  rooms 
occupied  by  gamblers,  small  tradesmen,  peddlers,  and 
Bohemian  vaulters  and  tumblers,  “to  where  Becky  had 
found  a little  nest,  as  dirty  a little  refuge  as  ever  beauty 
lay  hid  in.”  The  scene  where  the  Dutch  student,  with  the 
whity-brown  ringlets  and  large  finger-ring,  is  bawling  at 
the  key-hole,  while  the  gentleman  from  Bengal  is  approach- 
ing, is  inimitable.  Becky  opens  the  door  to  see  who  is 
coming,  and  in  an  instant  puts  a rouge-pot,  a brandy-bottle, 
and  a plate  of  broken  meat  into  the  bed,  gives  a smooth  to 
her  hair,  and  lets  in  her  visitor.  Poor  Joseph  deserved  to 
be  wheedled  by  a woman  who  could  sit  upon  a brandy- 
bottle,  and  play  the  coquette  with  rouge  up  to  her  eyelids 
and  a handkerchief  of  torn  and  faded  lace.  “She  never 
was  Lady  Crawley,  though  she  continued  so  to  call  herself.” 

But  we  close  the  book.  If  the  author  has  not  portrayed 
life  as  it  ought  to  be,  he  has  painted  it  as  it  really  is.  The 
lesson  inculcated  by  exhibiting  the  awful  and  fearful  conse- 
quences of  placing  the  moral  in  subordination  to  the  intel- 
lectual being  cannot  easily  be  forgotten. 


DREAMING. 


HE  subject  of  Dreaming  is  always  interesting.  It  is 


too  deeply  interwoven  with  philosophy  and  supersti- 
tion to  be  otherwise  than  interesting.  Dugald  Stewart 
defined  dreaming  to  be  a series  of  thoughts  not  under 
command  of  reason,  or  that  condition  in  which  we  have 
nearly  or  quite  lost  all  volition  over  bodily  organs,  but 
in  which  the  mental  powers  retain  a partial  degree  of 
activity. 

It  has  been  said  that,  though  the  power  of  volition  does 
not  seem  to  be  altogether  absent  in  sleep,  the  will  appears 
to  lose  its  influence  over  the  faculties  of  the  mind  and 
the  members  of  the  body,  which  during  our  waking  hours 
are  subject  to  its  authority. 

In  sleep  we  seem  to  experience  every  kind  of  emotion, 
and  at  times  our  reasoning  powers  appear  to  be  as  clear  as 
the  noonday  sun.  Spurzheim  and  Gall,  in  their  physiog- 
nomical system,  affirm,  in  the  most  positive  manner,  that 
we  often  reason  better  when  dreaming  than  when  awake. 
Hazlitt,  however,  makes  a good  deal  of  sport  of  this 
theory,  and  calls  it  a fine  style  of  German  mysticism. 

It  is  generally  supposed  that  dreaming  is  an  evidence  of 
imperfect  sleep ; but  it  is  possible  that  the  state  of  sleep  is 
always  accompanied  by  dreams,  though  we  may  not  be 
able  to  remember  them. 

On  one  occasion  we  heard  one  of  the  most  distinguished 


239 


240 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


authors  in  the  country  remark,  that  if  he  ever  dreamed  in 
his  life  he  did  not  know  it,  and  that  if  it  were  not  for  the 
positive  assertions  of  others,  he  would  be  forced  to  disbe- 
lieve in  dreams. 

Locke  relates  an  incident  of  a gentleman  who  never 
dreamed  until  he  was  twenty-six  years  of  age,  when  he  had 
a fever  and  dreamed  for  the  first  time. 

On  the  authority  of  Plutarch,  we  learn  that  Cleon  and 
Thrasymedes,  both  of  whom  lived  to  an  advanced  age, 
never  experienced  the  phenomena  of  dreaming.  Upham, 
in  his  Mental  Philosophy,  refuses  to  admit  the  possibility 
of  such  cases,  arguing  that  they  may  have  dreamed  and 
forgotten  their  dreams;  but  adds,  undoubtedly  such  per- 
sons dream  very  seldom.  Kant  inclines  to  the  same 
opinion,  and  says  that  those  who  fancy  they  have  not 
dreamed  have  forgotten  their  dreams. 

Nearly  all  the  ancient  philosophers  and  moralists  be- 
lieved in  the  divine  or  spiritual  character  of  dreams. 
Plato  asserts  that  all  dreams  can  be  trusted  when  the  body 
and  mind  are  in  a healthy  condition. 

The  sublimest  illustrations  of  the  prophetic  character  of 
dreams  are  found  in  the  Bible.  For  instance,  those  of 
Saul,  Solomon,  Abimelech,  and  Daniel,  in  the  Old  Testa- 
ment, and  those  of  the  wise  men  of  the  East,  of  Joseph, 
and  of  the  wife  of  Pilate,  in  the  New  Testament.  The 
following  passage  from  the  Scriptures  seems  to  proclaim 
the  prophetic  character  of  dreams:  “In  slumbering  upon 
the  bed,  God  openeth  the  ears  of  men  and  sealeth  their 
understanding.” 

The  dream  of  Calphurnia,  the  wife  of  Julius  Caesar,  is, 
perhaps,  the  most  extraordinary  example  we  have  in  pro- 
fane history  of  this  kind  of  dreaming.  She  dreamed,  the 
night  before  the  assassination  of  her  husband,  that  he  fell 
bleeding  upon  her  knees.  She  had  never  been  known  to 
display  anything  of  the  weakness  or  superstition  of  her 


DREAMING. 


24I 


sex,  and  when  she  conjured  him  not  to  visit  the  senate- 
chamber  he  was  inclined  to  obey  her  request ; but  Decius 
Brutus  Albinus,  one  of  the  conspirators  in  whom  Caesar 
placed  much  confidence,  persuaded  him  not  to  listen  to 
his  wife’s  warning. 

The  dream  related  by  Sir  Walter  Scott  in  a note  to  “ The 
Antiquary,”  is  so  thoroughly  established  by  those  ac- 
quainted with  the  facts,  that  we  give  it  below : 

“ Mr.  R d,  of  Bowland,  a gentleman  of  landed 

property  in  the  vale  of  Gala,  was  prosecuted  for  a very 
considerable  sum,  the  accumulated  arrears  of  teind,  or  tithe, 
for  which  he  was  said  to  be  indebted  to  a noble  family, 

the  titulars,  (lay  impropriators  of  the  tithes.)  Mr.  R d 

was  strongly  impressed  with  the  belief  that  his  father  had, 
by  a form  of  process  peculiar  to  the  laws  of  Scotland,  pur- 
chased these  lands  from  the  titular,  and,  therefore,  that  the 
present  prosecution  was  groundless.  But  after  an  indus- 
trious search  among  his  father’s  papers,  an  investigation 
among  the  public  records,  and  a careful  inquiry  among  all 
persons  who  had  transacted  law  business  for  his  father,  no 
evidence  could  be  recovered  to  support  his  defence.  The 
period  was  now  near  at  hand  when  he  conceived  the  loss 
of  his  lawsuit  to  be  inevitable ; and  he  had  formed  the 
determination  to  ride  to  Edinburgh  next  day  and  make  the 
best  bargain  he  could  in  the  way  of  compromise.  He  went 
to  bed  with  this  resolution,  and,  with  all  the  circumstances 
of  the  case  floating  upon  his  mind,  had  a dream  to  the  fol- 
lowing purpose : His  father,  who  had  been  many  years 
dead,  appeared  to  him,  he  thought,  and  asked  him  why  he 
was  disturbed  in  his  mind.  In  dreams  men  are  not  sur- 
prised at  such  apparitions.  Mr.  R d thought  that  he 

informed  his  father  of  the  cause  of  his  distress,  adding  that 
the  payment  of  a considerable  sum  of  money  was  the 
more  unpleasant  to  him  because  he  had  a strong  conscious- 
ness that  it  was  not  due,  though  he  was  unable  to  recover 


21 


242 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


any  evidence  in  support  of  his  belief.  ‘ You  are  right,  my 
son/  replied  the  paternal  shade;  ‘ I did  acquire  right  to 
these  teinds,  for  payment  of  which  you  are  now  prosecuted. 
The  papers  relating  to'  the  transaction  are  in  the  hands  of 

Mr.  , a writer,  (or  attorney,)  who  is  now  retired  from 

professional  business,  and  resides  at  Inveresk,  near  Edin- 
burgh. He  was  a person  whom  I employed  on  that  occa- 
sion for  a particular  reason,  but  who  never  on  any  other 
occasion  transacted  business  on  my  account.  It  is  very 

possible/  pursued  the  vision,  ‘that  Mr.  may  have 

forgotten  a matter  which  is  now  of  a very  old  date ; but 
you  may  call  it  to  his  recollection  by  this  token,  that, 
when  I came  to  pay  his  account,  there  was  difficulty  in 
getting  change  for  a Portugal  piece  of  gold,  and  we  were 
forced  to  drink  out  the  balance  at  a tavern.  ’ 

“ Mr.  R d awoke,  in  the  morning,  with  all  the  words 

of  the  vision  imprinted  on  his  mind,  and  thought  it  worth 
while  to  walk  across  the  country  to  Inveresk,  instead  of 
going  straight  to  Edinburgh.  When  he  came  there,  he 
waited  on  the  gentleman  mentioned  in  the  dream  — a 
very  old  man.  Without  saying  anything  of  the  vision,  he 
inquired  whether  he  ever  remembered  having  conducted 
such  a matter  for  his  deceased  father.  The  old  gentleman 
could  not  at  first  bring  the  circumstance  to  his  recollec- 
tion ; but  on  mention  of  the  Portugal  piece  of  gold,  the 
whole  returned  upon  his  memory.  He  made  an  immediate 
search  for  the  papers,  and  recovered  them  ; so  that  Mr. 

R d carried  to  Edinburgh  the  documents  necessary  to 

gain  the  cause  which  he  was  on  the  verge  of  losing.’ ’ 

The  theory  that  dreams  are  but  the  continuation  of  our 
waking  thoughts  is  very  popular  in  Germany  and  France, 
and,  indeed,  one  of  the  most  distinguished  savans  of  the 
latter  country  asserts  that  some  of  his  most  profound  and 
abstruse  calculations  were  left  in  an  unfinished  state,  and 
completed  in  his  dreams  after  he  had  gone  to  bed. 


DREAMING. 


243 


While  on  the  subject  of  the  relation  of  dreams  to  our 
waking  thoughts,  we  will  relate  Coleridge’s  story  of  the 
composition  of  one  of  his  most  beautiful  poems,  “ Kubla 
Khan.” 

In  the  summer  of  1797,  Coleridge  retired  to  a farm- 
house on  the  Exmoor  confines  of  Somerset  and  Devon- 
shire. He  was  ill,  and  had  taken  an  anodyne.  He  fell 
asleep  in  his  chair  while  reading  the  following  lines  in 
“ Purchas’s  Pilgrimage  ” : “ Here  the  Khan  Kubla  com- 
manded a palace  to  be  built,  and  a stately  garden  there- 
unto, and  thus  ten  miles  of  fertile  ground  were  enclosed 
with  a wall.” 

He  continued  to  sleep  very  profoundly  for  several  hours, 
during  which  he  composed  not  less  than  two  to  three  hun- 
dred lines  of  poetry.  On  waking,  he  endeavored  to  write 
out  what  he  had  composed,  but  was  called  away  on  busi- 
ness just  as  he  had  written  that  part  of  the  poem  that  has 
been  preserved.  When  he  returned  he  was  unable  to  finish 
the  poem ; but  what  he  wrote  ere  the  charm  was  broken 
contains  a world  of  beauty : 

44  In  Xanadu  did  Kubla  Khan 

A stately  pleasure-dome  decree, 

Where  Alph,  the  sacred  river,  ran 
Through  caverns  measureless  to  man, 

Down  to  a sunless  sea. 

So  twice  five  miles  of  fertile  ground 
With  walls  and  towers  were  girded  round, 

And  there  were  gardens  bright  with  sinuous  rills, 

Where  blossom’d  many  an  incense-bearing  tree, 

And  here  were  forests  ancient  as  the  hills, 

Enfolding  sunny  spots  of  greenery.” 

Coleridge  then  pictures  a wild,  romantic  chasm,  where 
huge  fragments  vaulted  like  rebounding  hail,  amid  the 
tumult  of  which  Kubla  Khan  heard  from  afar, 

44  Ancestral  voices  prophesying  war.” 


244 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


The  poem  concludes  with  a description  of  a dome  of 
pleasure,  in  which  an  Abyssinian  maid  sings  with  the 
sweetest  symphony  of  Mount  Abora: 

“ Singing  of  Mount  Abora. 

Could  I revive  within  me 
Her  symphony  and  song, 

To  such  a deep  delight  would’t  win  me. 

That  with  music  loud  and  long 
I would  build  that  dome  in  air; 

That  sunny  dome  ! those  caves  of  ice  ! 

And  all  who  heard  should  see  them  there, 

And  all  should  cry,  Beware  I beware 
His  flashing  eyes,  his  floating  hair : 

Weave  a circle  around  him  thrice. 

And  close  your  eyes  with  holy  dread. 

For  he  on  honey-dew  hath  fed, 

And  drunk  the  milk  of  Paradise.” 


One  of  the  most  singular  things  connected  with  dream- 
ing is  the  rapidity  with  which  time  seems  to  pass  while  in 
that  state. 

Dr.  Carpenter  relates  an  incident  of  a clergyman  falling 
asleep  in  his  pulpit  during  the  singing  of  a psalm  before 
the  sermon,  and  awaking  with  the  conviction  that  he  must 
have  slept  for  at  least  an  hour,  and  that  the  congregation 
had  been  waiting  for  him ; but  on  referring  to  his  book,  he 
was  consoled  by  finding  that  his  slumber  had  lasted  only 
during  the  singing  of  a single  line. 

De  Quincy  notices  at  length  the  phenomena  of  dream- 
ing, in  his  “Confessions  of  an  Opium  Eater.’ ’ He  says  : 

“ The  sense  of  space,  and  in  the  end  the  sense  of  time, 
were  both  powerfully  affected.  Buildings,  landscapes,  etc., 
were  exhibited  in  proportions  so  vast  as  the  bodily  eye  is 
not  fitted  to  receive.  Space  swelled,  and  was  amplified  to 
an  extent  of  unutterable  infinity.  This,  however,  did  not 
disturb  me  so  much  as  the  expansion  of  time.  I some- 


DREAMING.  245 

times  seemed  to  have  lived  for  seventy  or  a hundred  years 
in  a single  night.’’ 

He  also  says  that  he  seemed  to  be  buried  for  a thousand 
years  in  a stone  coffin  with  mummies  and  sphinxes,  in  nar- 
row chambers,  at  the  heart  of  eternal  pyramids. 

St.  Augustine  tells  us  of  a beautiful  dream,  by  which  a 
Carthaginian  physician  was  convinced  of  the  immortality 
of  the  soul.  There  appeared  to  the  physician,  while  asleep, 
the  form  and  semblance  of  a youth,  who  reasoned  with  him 
on  the  subject  of  the  immortality  of  the  soul,  and  argued,  that 
“ as  he  could  see  when  his  bodily  eyes  were  closed  in  sleep, 
so  he  would  find  that  when  his  bodily  senses  were  extinct 
in  death,  he  would  see  and  hear  and  feel  with  the  sense 
of  his  spirit.” 

M.  Gizeo  de  Buzereinges  made  a series  of  prearranged 
experiments  for  the  purpose  of  determining  whether  or  not 
it  was  possible  to  control  the  character  of  his  dreams.  He 
left  the  back  of  his  head  uncovered  during  sleep,  and 
dreamed  that  he  was  attending  a religious  meeting  held  in 
the  open  air.  At  another  time  he  left  his  knees  uncovered, 
and  dreamed  that  he  was  travelling  in  a stage-coach,  with 
very  cold  knees. 

Dr.  Gregory  once  placed  a bottle  of  hot  water  to  his 
feet,  and  dreamed  that  he  was  making  a journey  to  Mount 
ALtna,  and  found  the  heat  insufferable. 

Leigh  Hunt  says  that  dreams  are  by  no  means  modified, 
of  necessity,  by  what  the  mind  has  been  occupied  with  in  the 
course  of  the  day;  and  that  during  his  two  years’  confine- 
ment in  prison,  he  dreamed  but  twice  of  the  chief  subjects 
of  his  reflections. 

The  murderer  Walker,  who,  perhaps,  killed  more  men 
in  his  time  than  any  other  man  in  the  nation,  assured  us 
that  his  dreams  were  invariably  pleasant,  and  that  he  never 
dreamed  in  all  his  life  of  a single  one  of  his  victims,  but 
21  * 


246  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

that  his  mind,  during  his  waking  hours,  was  almost  con- 
stantly dwelling  upon  his  crimes. 

Hazlitt  says  that  he  never  dreamed  of  those  to  whom  he 
was  particularly  attached,  and  that  he  thought  almost  to 
agony  of  the  same  person  for  years  without  ceasing,  and 
was  haunted  by  a perpetual  consciousness  of  disappointed 
passion,  and  yet  never  dreamed  of  that  person  more  than 
once  or  twice,  and  then  not  vividly.  He  says,  “ I think 
myself  into  love,  and  dream  myself  out  of  it.,, 

This  theory  seems  to  be  at  variance  with  our  own  expe- 
rience, for  we  are  almost  sure  to  dream  of  those  whom  we 
think  most  about. 

It  has  been  a matter  of  much  speculation  whether  a per- 
son should  be  held  accountable  or  not  for  his  dreams, 
though  we  suppose  it  is  generally  conceded  that  if  our 
thoughts  are  evil  our  dreams  will  be  evil,  and  that  if  our 
thoughts  are  pure  our  dreams  will  be  pure.  But  no  matter 
how  much  we  may  be  blamed  for  our  dreams,  it  is  certain 
that  we  cannot  play  the  hypocrite  in  them. 

We  have  often  experienced,  while  dreaming,  the  sensa- 
tion of  flying,  and  have  even  dreamed  that  we  were  dream- 
ing about  it;  but  we  have  never  dreamed  that  we  were  a 
flying-machine,  or,  like  Leigh  Hunt,  of  visiting  a woman 
who  had  set  up  some  Flying  Rooms,  as  a person  does  a 
tavern. 

A number  of  writers,  including  the  learned  author  of 
“The  Literature  and  Curiosities  of  Dreams-,”  have  endeav- 
ored to  give  physiological  reasons  for  this  phenomena  of 
flying,  but  their  arguments  do  not  amount  to  anything 
more  than  pleasing  speculations. 

The  apparent  reality  of  dreams  has  often  occasioned 
many  ridiculous  blunders  in  leading  persons  to  relate  their 
dreams  as  actual  occurrences.  One  of  the  most  religious 
and  truthful  men  we  ever  knew,  on  one  occasion  assured 
us  that  he  had  travelled  in  Russia,  when  we  were  satisfied 
that  he  had  scarcely  been  outside  of  the  confines  of  the 


DREAMING. 


247 


neighborhood  in  which  he  lived.  We  have  also  heard  a 
distinguished  professor  in  a leading  medical  college  of 
Kentucky  say  that  he  had  dreamed  so  much  about  the 
catacombs  at  Paris,  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to  tell 
whether  he  had  actually  visited  them  or  not.  This,  how- 
ever, is  not  so  bad  as  the  story  of  the  man  who  dreamed 
that  his  head  had  been  cut  off,  and  refused  to  believe  other- 
wise until  allowed  the  privilege  of  looking  at  himself  in 
the  glass.  However,  none  of  these  examples  are  any  more 
extraordinary  than  a dream  of  our  own,  which  we  will 
relate. 

A few  years  ago,  after  a severe  and  continued  spell  of 
sickness,  we  dreamed  that  we  had  received  a letter  from  a 
friend  in  Europe.  It  was  written  at  Geneva.  The  scenery 
of  the  surrounding  country  was  glowingly  described. 
Nearly  all  the  famous  names  in  history  with  which  this 
romantic  place  is  associated,  including  those  of  Gibbon, 
De  Stael,  Necker,  Kemble,  Rousseau,  and  Voltaire,  were 
recalled  and  commented  upon  with  singular  clearness  and 
beauty.  We  had  the  most  vivid  impression  of  reading  the 
letter  over  and  over  again,  and  of  putting  it  in  the  drawer 
of  our  writing-desk,  with  the  intention  of  perusing  it  again 
after  breakfast.  On  waking,  the  impression  was  not  dis- 
pelled. It  became,  for  a time,  an  actual  event  in  life,  as 
palpable  to  the  senses  as  what  we  feel  and  touch. 

We  were  mortified  beyond  endurance  an  hour  or  two 
afterward,  when  we  related  the  supposed  fact  of  having 
received  the  letter  to  a friend,  who  informed  us  that  the 
gentleman  had  not  gone  to  Europe,  but  contemplated  doing 
so  in  the  course  of  a few  months. 

Fortunately,  however,  we  are  not  often  troubled  with  the 
difficulty  of  being  unable  to  distinguish  between  our  waking 
and  sleeping  thoughts;  and  when  we  are  we  console  our- 
selves with  the  reflection  that  those  who  never  dream  never 
think. 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


HIS  singularly  gifted  artist  deservedly  stands  in  the 


JL  front  rank  of  American  painters.  His  fame  has  not 
sprung  from  artificial  instruction,  but  from  the  indescribable 
power  of  genius.  His  style  is  peculiarly  his  own.  He  is 
no  specialist.  He  has  been  successful  in  the  different 
branches  of  his  profession.  His  pictures  seem  to  be  living, 
breathing  representations  of  the  most  perfect  ideas  of  the 
true,  the  beautiful,  and  good.  They  are  full  of  the  divinest 
philosophy.  They  are  vehicles  of  thought,  valuable  not 
only  in  themselves,  but  for  what  they  suggest.  There  is 
nothing  obscure,  or  dull,  or  heavy,  or  forced,  or  artificial 
about  them.  The  more  we  look  at  them  and  study  them, 
the  more  we  are  impressed  with  their  wonderful  truth  and 
beauty.  They  are  full  of  the  truest  elements  of  poetry, 
gathered  from  this  beautiful  world  around  us.  The  artist 
has  indeed  brought  all  the  kindred  graces  of  nature  to 
heighten  the  images  which  they  reveal.  He  has  in  no  in- 
stance endeavored  to  attract  attention  by  portraying  some- 
thing startling  and  surprising ; but 


Frankenstein  has  been  placed  by  some  of  the  ablest 
art  critics  in  this  country,  and  in  Europe,  in  nearly  all  the 
different  schools  of  modern  painting;  but  in  reality  he  is  not 
a representative  of  any  one  particular  school,  for  he  seems 


“With  nature’s  hues, 


Her  forms,  and  with  the  spirit  of  her  forms, 
He  clothes  the  nakedness  of  austere  truth.” 


248 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


249 


to  have  acquired,  as  if  by  intuition,  everything  that  is  great 
and  good  in  them  all.  His  paintings  are  wholly  free  from 
that  strong  bias  of  color  so  strikingly  characteristic  of  the 
English  school,  and  the  exaggerated  coarseness  of  the  Flem- 
ish school ; and  we  may  as  well  add  that  they  do  not  possess 
in  the  least  the  studied  and  strained  qualities  of  form  of  the 
Florentine,  or  the  forced  and  phantasmagoric  styles  of  the 
different  Venetian  schools. 

The  celebrated  English  painter  Stanfield  never  painted 
a natural- looking  object  in  his  life.  His  rocks  are  invari- 
ably covered  with  mud,  and  Ruskin  says  that  his  boats  do 
not  look  weather-beaten,  but  newly  painted,  and  that  his 
sailors  always  appear  in  fresh  got-up  caps  and  aprons,  while 
his  beggars  are  forever  thrusting  themselves  forward  in  un- 
exceptionable rags.  These  defects  certainly  cannot  be  at- 
tributed to  Frankenstein,  for  every  object  that  he  has 
portrayed,  from  the  tiniest  blade  of  grass  to  the  cloud-pin- 
nacled mountains,  appears  just  as  it  is  in  nature.  The  ap- 
parent reality  of  his  paintings  can  be  accounted  for  in  a great 
degree  by  the  fact  that  but  little  of  his  work  is  done  in  his 
studio  or  from  memory.  Indeed,  we  know  from  our  own 
personal  knowledge,  that  the  greater  part  of  his  work  is 
done  out  of  doors,  while  the  broad  sunshine  is  streaming 
over  mountain,  hill,  and  dale,  impressing  him  not  only  with 
stern  reality,  but  with  all  the  ethereal  graces  and  beauties 
that  live  in  the  rainbow  and  play  in  the  plighted  clouds. 

While  employed  in  out-of-door  work,  some  very  amusing 
incidents  have  happened  to  him,  which,  though  often  re- 
lated before,  are  good  enough  to  repeat  here.  On  one 
occasion,  while  at  work  in  this  way,  two  men  came  along 
the  road  on  horseback,  and,  being  desirous  of  knowing  what 
he  was  doing,  stopped  to  look  at  him.  One  of  them  cried 
out,  “Running  a railroad,  sir?”  “No,  sir,”  said  the 
artist.  “ Turnpike,  then  ? ” returned  the  traveller ; but  on 
being  answered  in  the  negative,  said,  “ Canal,  then  ? ” but 
again  receiving  no  for  an  answer,  exclaimed,  as  if  out  of 


250 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


all  patience,  “ Then  what  in  the  devil  are  you  doing?” 
Frankenstein,  we  suppose,  had  to  explain  the  nature  of 
his  work ; but  whether  the  travellers  understood  the  philos- 
ophy of  it  or  not,  we  are  unable  to  say. 

One  time,  a boy  strayed  in  the  vicinity  of  his  sketching- 
ground  and  peeped  at  one  of  his  pictures,  in  the  centre 
of  which  was  a stately  tree.  “ Ah,”  said  the  boy,  “ I know 
that ! It  is  an  oak.  ” ‘ ‘ How,  ’ ’ inquired  the  artist,  ‘ ‘ do  you 
know  ? ” ‘ ‘ Because, ’ ’ said  the  boy,  ‘ ‘ I got  a swing  in  it.  ’ * 

On  another  occasion,  a boy  recognized  an  elm  on  the 
canvas,  and  said,  “Gosh  ! I know  that  tree,  for  I caught 
four  rabbits  in  it  last  winter,  and  am  going  to  catch  more 
before  spring.” 

A few  months  ago,  we  were 'looking  at  some  of  Frank- 
enstein’s pictures  in  an  art  gallery  in  Louisville.  A gen- 
tleman was  with  us  at  the  time,  who  is  an  excellent  judge 
of  painting.  He  seemed  to  enjoy  fully  as  much  as  we  did 
the  myriad  of  beauties  that  were  spread  out  before  us. 
Suddenly  fixing  his  eyes  upon  a landscape,  he  exclaimed, 
“ I know  that  view.  It  is  on  the  Little  Miami  River,  not  very 
far  from  Cincinnati.  I have  not  seen  the  place  for  twenty- 
eight  years,  but  I am  sure  that  I cannot  be  mistaken  about 
it.  The  real  scene  itself  cannot  be  more  lifelike  and  natu- 
ral. Every  object  is  portrayed  with  wonderful  minuteness 
and  accuracy.” 

It  is  somewhat  singular  that  an  artist  could  paint  a picture 
so  perfectly  as  to  bring  to  mind  the  scene  itself,  after  so 
long  a period,  but  it  is,  nevertheless,  as  true  as  it  is  singular. 

We  will  relate  another  incident  fully  as  remarkable  : Dr. 
John  Locke,  of  Cincinnati,  once  saw  a picture  of  a White 
Mountain  scene  in  a framer’s  window,  and  stopped  before 
it,  and  said,  “ White  pine,  alder,  birch — Androscoggin, 
White  Mountains  — Frankenstein.”  Dr.  L.,  until  he 
saw  the  picture,  did  not  know  that  Frankenstein  had 
visited  the  White  Mountains,  and  had  no  knowledge  what- 
ever of  his  having  painted  them. 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN.  25  I 

Many  persons  suppose,  from  the  fidelity  with  which 
Frankenstein  copies  nature,  that  he  paints  the  scene  ex- 
actly as  it  is ; but  such,  although  frequently,  is  by  no  means 
always  the  case.  He  often  makes  what  changes  he  thinks 
the  expression  of  the  scene  demands,  but  not  in  such  a way 
as  to  destroy  the  identity  of  the  scene.  To  illustrate  this, 
we  will  mention  that  in  1849  painted  a picture  of  a 
magnificent  view  on  the  Whitewater  River,  in  Indiana.  It 
attracted  a great  deal  of  attention..  Every  one  who  saw  it 
had  some  word  of  praise  for  it.  It  was  exhibited  in  Cin- 
cinnati, and  some  of  the  finest  artists  in  that  city  were  so 
impressed  with  its  truth  and  naturalness,  that  they  believed 
a new  school  had  been  inaugurated  in  landscape  painting. 
One  of  the  artists,  however,  remarked  that  he  wished 
Frankenstein  would  compose  a landscape,  instead  of 
painting  one  as  he  actually  found  it.  The  framer  who 
exhibited  the  picture  was  very  well  versed  in  painting,  and 
Frankenstein  asked  him,  “ How  many  sketches  do  you 
suppose  I used  in  painting  this  picture?  ” “ One,”  replied 

the  framer.  “ You  are  very  much  mistaken,”  said  Frank- 
enstein; “I  used  twelve  different  sketches.”  And  yet  this 
picture  \vas  so  lifelike  and  natural  that  it  was  at  once  recog- 
nized as  a scene  on  the  Whitewater  River,  near  Harrison. 

We  have  heard  that  our  artist,  while  painting  a series  of 
pictures  of  winter  views  of  Niagara,  was  often  found  at 
work  in  the  very  coldest  weather,  when  the  spray  from  the 
cataract  had  actually  frozen  so  hard  upon  his  canvas,  that 
it  required  the  use  of  a knife  to  remove  the  ice  from  it. 

The  art  critic  in  the  New  York  Courier  and  Enquirer, 
in  speaking  of  Frankenstein’s  views  of  Niagara,  says  : 
“ These  views  are  no  hasty  sketches.  They  are  the  product 
of  years  of  close  observation  and  incessant  labor.  The 
artist  seems  to  have  examined  the  ground  about  the  Falls 
inch  by  inch,  and  to  have  passed  by  no  spot  from  which  a 
fine  or  peculiar  view  presented  itself  without  making  a pic- 
ture in  which  the  very  spirit  as  well  as  the  body  of  the 


252 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


scene  is  imprisoned. ” Francis  Hall,  in  describing  Frank- 
enstein’s views  of  Niagara,  says:  “So  faithfully  has  the 
artist  performed  his  task  that  every  point  can  be  recognized. 
These  paintings  have  not  been  the  work  of  a day.  Eight 
or  nine  years  have  been  devoted  to  them  by  Mr.  Frank- 
enstein, and  every  season  of  the  year  has  been  made  to 
give  its  proper  effect.  There  are  the  spring  freshness,  the 
summer  ripeness,  the  last  tint  of  Indian  summer,  the 
autumnal  foliage,  and  the  snow  of  winter.” 

An  incident  happened  to  Frankenstein  while  painting 
at  Niagara,  which  maybe  worth  while  to  relate.  Jenny  Lind 
greatly  admired  his  pictures,  of  which  she  bought  several. 
One  evening  he  entered  her  room  when  she  was  making 
arrangements  for  a dance,  and  she  invited  him  to  take  part. 
“Excuse  me,  Miss  Lind,”  said  he;  “I  can’t  dance.” 
“But  you  can  make  up  the  set,”  said  she,  “ and  we  will 
not  ask  you  to  dance  much.” 

“But  you  will  laugh  at  me,”  he  replied. 

“No,  indeed;  we  will  not  laugh  at  you,  Mr.  Franken- 
stein.” 

He  then  took  his  place  and  went  through  the  dance.  At 
the  close  of  the  performance  Miss  Lind  said  archly,  “We 
did  not  laugh  at  you,  Mr.  Frankenstein,  but  you  paint 
better . ’ ’ 

In  one  of  Frankenstein’s  large  views  of  the  main 
branch  of  the  Falls,  there  is  so  much  power  and  genius  dis- 
played that  we  never  see  it  without  thinking  that  the  painter 
has  left  us  nothing  to  be  desired  in  the  way  of  art.  He  has 
portrayed  the  peculiar  tint  of  the  purple  and  blue  limestone 
with  as  much  accuracy  as  he  has  the  view  of  the  maddened 
ocean  of  foam  rushing  and  whirling  and  tumbling  over  the 
majestic  rocks,  for  the  deep  and  prolonged  thunder-tones 
of  the  waters  seem  actually  to  be  bursting  upon  the  ear. 

Our  artist  has  painted  the  Falls  in  all  their  different 
aspects.  In  summer  and  winter,  in  sunshine  and  storm,  at 
morn  and  twilight,  and  under  the  inspiring  glow  of  the  soft- 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


253 


shining  moon  and  stars ; but  in  every  one  of  them  we  have 
the  same  harmonious  blending  of  colors,  the  same  exquisite 
effect  of  light  and  shade,  the  same  discrimination  of  taste, 
and  the  same  power,  truth,  beauty,  genius,  and  naturalness. 

It  has  been  urged,  as  an  objection  to  this  great  art- 
ist’s pictures,  that  they  are  too  highly  colored,  but  this  ob- 
jection comes  from  those  who  know  little  or  nothing 
about  nature.  One  time  he  was  painting  on  a picture 
of  Niagara  at  the  base  of  the  Tower,  and  five  or  six  young 
men  stopped  to  look  on.  One  of  the  party  said  to  him, 
“You  seem  to  be  one  of  those  artists  who  color  too 
highly.”  Mr.  F.  could  not  help  replying,  “And  you 
seem  to  be  one  of  those  persons  who  give  their  opinion 
without  being  asked.”  The  man  was  quite  taken  aback  at 
this  rejoinder,  and  the  laughter  which  burst  from  his  com- 
panions added  no  little  to  his  discomfiture.  Mr.  Franken- 
stein, however,  endeavored  to  relieve  him  a little,  and 
said,  “ My  friend,  it  is  a dull,  smoky  morning,  and  I can 
spare  a few  minutes  for  your  instruction.  You  said  this 
picture  is  too  highly  colored.  My  intention  is  to  represent 
this  scene  on  a bright,  warm  morning,  when  the  colors  are 
much  brighter  than  now.  I am  at  work  to-day  only  for 
the  purpose  of  advancing  some  passages  for  a better  light 
when  it  comes.  But  let  us  take  the  scene  in  nature  as  it 
is  in  its  present  dull  light.  Now  select,”  said  the  artist, 
“any  passage  of  the  picture  that  you  think  too  highly 
colored.”  The  man  pointed  to  a part  of  the  Rapids 
near  the  Tower.  “ Now  find,”  said  the  artist,  “the  corre- 
sponding spot  in  nature.”  The  man  did  so,  and  exclaimed, 
“ Well ! well ! it  is  a great  deal  brighter  than  it  is  in  your 
picture,  and  I thank  you  for  the  lesson  you  have  given  me.” 
Another  little  incident  happened  in  London,  which  we  will 
relate.  A noted  picture-dealer  took  up  one  of  Franken- 
stein’s paintings  and  made  a wipe  on  it  with  his  thumb. 
“What  are  you  doing?”  inquired  the  artist,  fearing  that 
22 


254  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

his  picture  would  be  spoiled.  “I  want  to  wipe  out,”  said 
the  man,  “that  spot.  It  cannot  be  the  moon;  it  is  too 
small.”  Frankenstein  showed  him  that  the  moon  and 
sun  were  generally  painted  too  large,  and  that  he  painted 
them  the  right  size. 

Bell' s Life  in  London , in  speaking  of  one  of  Franken- 
stein’s views  of  Niagara,  says:  “It  confronts  the  specta- 
tor as  he  enters  the  room,  and  consists  of  a striking  and 
most  vivid  representation  of  the  Horse-shoe  Fall,  Niagara. 
On  the  right  of  the  picture  is  seen  the  Table  Rock,  while 
on  the  left  Goat  Island  and  the  Tower  are  depicted.  A 
debris  of  rocks  which  have  fallen  from  the  cliffs  above  at 
different  periods  are  prominent  features,  and  give  a sort  of 
rugged  framework  to  the  picture.  In  front  the  great  gigantic 
fall  of  water  tumbles  in  grand  display  of  power  into  the  nat- 
ural basin,  in  which  it  foams  and  seethes  and  wrestles  in  de- 
terminate fury  of  purpose.  A cloud  of  spray  rises  over  and 
gives  a sort  of  connecting  link  to  the  medium  of  shadowy 
changes  in  the  sky.  The  idea  conceived  by  the  artist  is 
wrought  out  with  decided  strength,  and  the  intensity  of  this 
great  movement  of  nature  is  most  distinctly  exhibited.” 

The  London  Era  says  of  the  same  picture:  “Extreme 
truthfulness  is  the  great  characteristic  of  Mr.  Franken- 
stein’s pictures,  and  certainly  the  most  striking  feature  of 
this  one  is  the  life  and  action  expressed  in  the  broken  water 
between  the  point  from  which  the  view  is  taken  and  the  Fall 
itself.  The  whole  picture  is  very  carefully  painted,  but  at  the 
same  time  breadth  and  largeness  of  effect  are  not  sacrificed.” 

The  art  critic  in  the  London  Cosmopolitan  is  even  more 
enthusiastic  in  its  praise.  He  says : “This  artist,  whose 
course  we  have  long  watched  as  a devout  student  of  nature, 
has  succeeded  wonderfully  in  catching  the  spirit,  the  power, 
and  the  solemn  mysteries  of  the  scene : the  iris  hues,  the 
transparent  mist,  the  purple  shadows,  the  pale  crescent  moon, 
and  the  ‘beautiful  rainbow  aureole  are  all  there,  and  we 
almost  hear  the  ceaseless  roar  of  the  mighty  waters,  feel 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN.  255 

the  moisture  of  the  spray  on  our  cheek,  and  the  tremble- 
ment  de  ierre  under  our  feet.  ’ ’ 

The  following  is  from  the  London  Examiner : “The 
artist  who  has  thus  endeavored  to  achieve  a work  wherein 
all  but  the  most  highly  gifted  need  hardly  be  ashamed  to 
fail,  is  Mr.  Godfrey  Frankenstein,  a painter  of  consid- 
erable repute  in  the  United  States;  and  apart  from  his 
general  proficiency  in  the  branch  of  pictorial  art  to  which 
he  has  devoted  himself,  his  special  qualification  for  his  self- 
imposed  task  is,  that  at  favorable  intervals,  for  twenty  years 
or  more,  he  has  made  this  “wild  waste  of  waters/’  in  its 
various  aspects,  and  under  various  conditions  of  the  atmos- 
phere, the  subject  of  studies  and  sketches  innumerable, 
until  he  has  felt  himself  equal  to  the  effort  of  transferring 
to  canvas  and  perpetuating  in  oil  colors  a view  of  it  from 
the  point  best  fitted  to  impart  a notion  both  of  its  magni- 
tude and  majesty.  Mr.  Frankenstein  has  taken  hrs  stand 
on  the  Canadian  side  of  the  stream.  The  high  rock,  known 
as  ‘ Table  Rock,’  occupies  the  extreme  right  of  his  compo- 
sition, and  a huge  mass  jutting  out  from  this  rock,  at  the 
base  of  the  picture,  is  painted  with  great  truth  and  force  — 
so  much  so,  that  the  spectator  may  be  forgiven  for  imagin- 
ing that  he  could  almost  get  behind  the  great  limestone 
block,  and  take  his  fill  of  the  spray  dashing  up  against  it 
on  its  unseen  side.  On  the  left,  Goat  Island  and  its  Tower 
are  seen.  Here  the  waters  tumble  from  the  heights  in  close 
proximity  to  the  observer,  and  flow  tumultuously  forward; 
while  in  accordance  with  the  peculiarly  shaped  curve  which 
has  given  to  this  fall  the  name  whereby  it  is  best  known. 
At  the  furthermost  distance  we  behold  the  seething  foam 
ascending  to  and  blending  with  the  clouds  above.  The 
rainbow  — which,  save  at  unpropitious  seasons  when  sun  and 
sky  alike  take  their  most  unfavorable  complexions,  seldom 
fails  to  throw  its  many-colored  arch  over  the  scene  — is  of 
course  present,  as  an  item  of  additional  interest  in  the  pic- 
ture, and  of  additional  difficulty  to  the  painter.” 


256 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


Mr.  Frankenstein’s  views  of  the  Alps  and  the  Lake  of 
Geneva  have  attracted  fully  as  much  attention  as  his  paint- 
ings of  Niagara.  His  views  of  Mont  Blanc  and  other 
scenes  connected  with  the  Vale  of  Chamouni,  take  us  to  the 
scenes  themselves.  His  representations  of  the  glaciers 
glittering  in  all  the  splendor  of  the  sunlight,  are  absolutely 
perfect.  His  masses  of  snow  are  piled  one  above  the  other 
just  as  in  nature,  and  look  as  if  the  slightest  breath  would 
precipitate  them  from  their  lofty  heights. 

During  the  artist’s  sojourn  among  these  mountains,  he  de- 
voted a great  deal  of  time  to  the  study  of  their  geological 
structure  and  formation,  as  if  determined  to  make  himself 
familiar  with  everything  relative  to  them  before  attempting 
to  transfer  to  his  canvas  their  majestic  beauties  and  glories. 

We  could  never  be  weary  of  looking  at  this  series  of 
pictures,  for  in  them  the  vast  walls  of  the  mountains  seem 
to  stretch  out  to  illimitable  space,  and  proclaim  with  mil- 
lions of  voices  the  power  and  majesty  of  God.  In  them 
the  sun  seems  to  glance  upon  the  silvery  threads  of  foun- 
tains, lakes,  and  waterfalls  with  such  marvellous  beauty, 
that  we  seem  to  catch  a glimpse  of 

“ The  light  that  never  was  on  sea  or  land, 

The.  consecration  and  the  poet’s  dream.” 


If  we  were  called  upon  to  decide  which  is  the  most 
beautiful  picture  in  this  collection,  we  should  probably 
select  “A  View  of  Mont  Blanc  just  before  Sunset.”  In 
this  picture  the  summit  of  the  mountain  shines  with  a glow 
of  such  brilliancy,  that  it  seems  to  possess  within  itself  the 
mysterious  principles  of  light.  We  have  often  heard  peo- 
ple remark  that  it  was  of  no  use  to  go  to  Europe  to  see  the 
Alps,  when  they  could  be  seen  just  as  well  in  Franken- 
stein’s pictures. 

When  he  was  painting  the  Alps  on  the  spot,  a number 
of  tourists  actually  ascended  the  mountain  upon  which  he 
was  staying,  for  the  purpose  of  seeing  his  pictures. 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


257 


One  time  he  was  painting  a view  from  the  Flegere,  and 
a number  of  travellers  approached  him.  He  was  at  work 
about  a hundred  yards  from  the  chalet  at  the  top,  and  one 
of  the  men  declined  to  go  to  the  top,  although  so  very  near 
it.  The  man,  on  being  asked  the  reason  for  so  doing,  re- 
plied, “ I came  up  to  see  this  picture,  and  will  remain  here 
until  you  return.” 

Frankenstein’s  pictures  of  the  Alps  speak  their  own 
praise,  and,  like  the  Alps  themselves,  ever  offer  to  us  new 
objects  of  interest  and  beauty.  His  picture  of  Lake  Geneva, 
with  the  Alps  in  the  distance,  is  deserving  of  the  very 
highest  praise.  There  is  a soft  and  mellow  beauty  about  it 
that 

“sings  to  the  eye.” 

It  seizes  the  very  spirit  and  splendor  of  the  scene. 

A great  deal  has  been  said  of  late  years  about  the  compar- 
ative merits  of  the  landscape  paintings  of  the  old  masters 
and  those  of  modern  painters  ; but  the  best  critics  have  not 
the  slightest  hesitation  in  deciding  in  favor  of  the  superiority 
of  the  works  of  modern  painters.  The  truth  is  that  the 
old  masters  thought  very  little  about  nature.  The  greatest 
object  they  had  in  view  was  the  art  of  imitation.  They 
believed  that  the  only  way  in  which  they  could  excel  in 
their  profession  was  by  copying  a master.  They  argued 
that  education  should  be  conducted  alone  upon  this  prin- 
ciple — that  imitation  was  the  leading  propensity  and  the 
strongest  passion  of  man.  They  looked  for  the  coldest  and 
most  commonplace  effects,  because  they  were  the  easiest  to 
copy.  They  cared  more  for  form  than  they  did  for  reality. 
With  them  everything  was  done  by  rule  and  square.  To 
paint  what  was  called  “ close  truth,”  was  considered  the 
only  object  in  view,  but  essential  truth  was  never  thought 
of  for  a moment  even  by  the  greatest  of  them.  Take  for 
example  the  works  of  Nicholas  Poussin.  His  celebrated 
22* 


253 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


picture  “ Et  in  Arcadia,”  which  has  been  described  as  “a 
noble  pastoral,  in  which  the  mutability  of  all  earthly  things 
is  suggested  in  the  finest  and  most  touching  manner,”  is  far 
from  being  a perfect  painting.  The  foliage  of  his  trees  is 
wretchedly  executed.  It  is  almost  impossible  to  tell  a leaf 
from  a branch.  The  same  defect  in  the  anatomy  of  his 
foliage  is  noticed  in  his  pictures  entitled  “The  Four  Sea- 
sons ” and  “ Eurydice  Bitten  by  the  Serpent.” 

But  while  the  landscapes  above  named  are  deficient  in 
these  important  features,  too  much  praise  cannot  be  bestowed 
upon  his  historical  and  religious  paintings,  which,  in  spite 
of  their  defective  coloring,  have  blazoned  his  name  in  the 
firmament  of  reputation.  His  pictures  of  “ Christ  Appear- 
ing at  the  Prayer  of  St.  Xavier,”  “The  Deluge,”  “Elizur 
and  Rebecca,”  and  “Moses  Striking  the  Rock,”  are  in- 
deed wonderful  illustrations  of  artistic  skill. 

The  defects  in  the  paintings  of  the  old  masters  are  occa- 
sioned, as  we  have  often  said,  by  a want  of  the  proper 
study  of  nature.  Ruskin,  who  is  perhaps  our  highest 
authority  in  art  criticism,  says  that  it  is  only  by  the  habit  of 
representing  faithfully  all  things  that  we  can  truly  learn 
what  is  beautiful  and  what  is  not ; that  the  ugliest  objects 
contain  some  element  of  beauty,  and  in  all  it  is  an  element 
peculiar  to  themselves,  which  cannot  be  separated  from 
their  ugliness,  but  must  either  be  enjoyed  together  with  it, 
or  not  at  all.  In  his  “ Ideas  of  Truth,”  he  says  : “Imita- 
tion can  only  be  of  something  material,  but  truth  has  refer- 
ence to  statements  both  of  the  qualities  of  material  things 
and  of  emotions,  impressions,  and  thoughts.  There  is  a 
moral  as  well  as  material  truth  ; a truth  of  impression  as 
well  as  of  form  — of  thought  as  well  as  of  matter  ; and  the 
truth  of  impression  and  thought  is  a thousand  times  the 
more  important  of  the  two.  Hence,  truth  is  a term  of 
universal  application,  but  imitation  is  limited  to  that  nar- 
row field  of  art  which  takes  cognizance  of  only  material 
things.” 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


259 


Ruskin  has  placed  Turner  at  the  head  of  modern  painters,  \ 
because  his  works  impress  him  with  these  ideas  of  truth  ; 
but  we  have  failed  to  discover  a single  excellence  in  Turner 
that  Frankenstein  does  not  possess,  while  at  the  same 
time  we  feel  constrained  to  say  that  there  are  beauties  in 
Frankenstein’s  pictures  for  which  we  may  look  in  vain  in 
the  works  of  Turner,  or  in  those  of  any  other  artist.  We  do 
not  believe  that  there  is  a finer  landscape  in  existence  than 
Frankenstein’s  “ Early  Summer.”  This  picture  is  taken 
from  a beautiful  view  on  Lagonda  Creek,  near  Springfield, 
Ohio.  The  artist  seems  to  have  given  in  this  picture  his  birds 
a voice,  and  the  leaves  of  his  trees  the  power  of  being  moved 
by  the  wind.  In  the  front  of  this  picture  is  a large  cluster 
of  flowers  so  perfect  in  formation  and  coloring,  that  one 
can  scarcely  resist  the  temptation  of  plucking  them.  In 
the  middle  ground  the  painter  has,  with  singular  power  and 
skill,  placed  two  levels  of  water  on  the  canvas,  one  a little 
higher  than  the  other,  thus  giving  a double  reflection  to  the 
countless  glories  and  beauties  of  the  scene.  Every  object 
is  perfect,  from  the  petals  of  the  sweet  wild-flowers  to  the 
golden-tinted  clouds  floating,  one  above  the  other,  in  calm 
and  majestic  beauty. 


Mr.  Prentice,  the  poet  journalist,  used  to  say  that  he 
never  saw  one  of  Frankenstein’s  pictures  in  his  life  with- 
out forgetting  that  it  was  a picture,  so  great  was  its  truth- 
fulness to  nature;  and  to  see  in  the  summer-time  his  repre- 
sentation of  water,  invariably  made  him  feel  like  plunging 
in.  Mr.  Prentice  saw,  some  years  ago,  three  of  Franken- 
stein’s pictures  that  were  on  exhibition  in  Louisville,  and 
thus  spoke  of  them  at  the  time  in  the  Louisville  Journal : 
“It  is  seldom  that  we  have  an  opportunity  of  seeing 
landscapes  of  such  exquisite  beauty  and  truthfulness.  While 
looking  at  them,  you  see  nature  itself  before  you.  The 
larger  paintings  are  representations  of  Kentucky  scenery  in 
all  the  gorgeous  coloring  of  Indian  summer.  One  is  a 
morning  and  the  other  is  an  evening  scene.  They  are  both 


( 


26o 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


beautiful  exceedingly,  but  the,  evening  scene  is  our  favorite. 
A particular  part  of  this  landscape  always  appears  to  us 
like  a gush  of  the  richest  harmony.  Most  persons  prefer 
the  morning  scene,  and  it  is  exquisitely  beautiful,  with  its 
green  meadows,  its  glowing  hills,  and  its  mellow  distance. 
The  small  picture  is  a gem.  The  principal  object  is  a 
beautifully  swelling  hill  arrayed  in  its  robes  of  russet  and 
scarlet  and  yellow.  • On  the  right  of  the  picture  is  another 
hill,  down  which  the  sunlight  is  pouring  in  a stream.  In 
the  distance,  between  the  two  hills,  is  a broad  sheet  of 
water,  seeming  happy  in  reflecting  the  glory  above  it.  The 
rich  sunlight  is  spread  over  hill  and  valley,  shining  down 
even  into  the  water.” 

John  P.  Morton,  the  well-known  publisher  and  book- 
seller, has  in  his  possession  one  of  Frankenstein’s  pictures 
that  has  drawn  forth  the  most  enthusiastic  praise  from  every 
one  who  has  had  the  good  fortune  to  see  it.  It  is  a scene 
on  one  of  our  Western  rivers.  The  water  is  as  calm  as  the 
sky  reflected  in  it.  The  trees  stand  as  they  stand  in  our 
forests,  each  with  its  own  characteristics,  the  most  prominent 
being  a splendid  plane-tree  stretching  out  its  immense 
branches.  The  beach  under  the  trees  seems  to  invite  you 
to  lie  down  and  dream  by  the  side  of  the  sweet  and  lovely 
water.  In  the  foreground  the  light  of  the  setting  sun  is 
mingled  with  shade ; in  the  background  it  falls  in  a mass 
on  the  side  of  a hill.  The  spectator  forgets  that  he  is  look- 
ing at  a painting  — it  is  sunlight  itself. 

Among  Mr.  Frankenstein’s  larger  paintings  there  are 
a great  many  that  are  fraught  with  the  most  pleasing  his- 
toric associations.  Those  especially  worthy  of  mention  are 
“The  Lawrence  Homestead,  Quincy,  Mass.,”  painted  in 
1847;  “The  Adams  Plomestead,”  painted  in  1849;  a series 
of  views  of  Bank  Lick,  Ky.,  painted  in  1851  ; a splen- 
did view  on  the  Great  Miami,  near  Cleves,  Hamilton 
County,  Ohio,  and  “The  Total  Eclipse,”  painted  near 
Brooklyn  Ferry,  on  the  Kentucky  River,  in  August,  1869. 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


26l 


This  last  picture  we  regard  as  the  grandest  triumph  of  his 
genius.  It  seems  to  have  been  executed  by  the  hand  of  an 
enchanter.  There  is  nothing  that  we  have  ever  seen  in 
painting  that  can  equal  it  in  grandeur  and  sublimity.  There 
is  a wild  and  supernatural  terror  about  it,  greater  than  that 
of  the  most  impenetrable  darkness.  It  awakens  the  pro- 
foundest  study  and  thought. 


In  looking  at  it,  we  have  sometimes  fancied  that  its  ex- 
ecution was  as  quick  and  rapid  as  it  is  sublime  and  wonder- 
ful, and  that  the  mind  that  portrayed  it  must  have  probed 
earth’s  deepest  secrets,  and  peered  into  the  dark,  dread 
void  beyond.  Those  who  were  not  fortunate  enough  to 
witness  the  total  eclipse  should  see  this  picture.  The  moon 
and  stars  in  it  appear  as  if  newly  created,  reminding  us  of 
when  God  moved  upon  the  face  of  the  waters,  and  the 
earth  was  without  form  and  void.  It  is  useless  to  attempt 
a description  of  it.  No  detailed  account  can  give  the 
reader  the  slightest  idea  of  its  power  and  its  sublimity.  It 
must  be  seen  to  be  appreciated. 


On  one  occasion,  while  Frankenstein  was  walking 
along  a road  on  the  banks  of  the  Great  Miami,  near  Cleves, 
Ohio,  an  elderly  gentleman  on  horseback  joined  him,  and, 
after  passing  the  compliments  of  the  day,  said  to  him,  “I 
saw  you  standing  on  the  bank  across  the  river  yesterday, 
very  busy  doing  something,  but  I could  not  tell  what. 
Now  what  were  you  doing?”  “Painting  one  of  the  scenes 
on  the  river,”  said  the  artist.  “But,  for  what  object?” 
inquired  the  gentleman.  “The  scene  is  a beautiful  one,” 
said  the  artist,  “and  I wanted  a picture  of  it.”  “Well, 
what  is  the  object?”  asked  the  gentleman.  “To  give  my- 
self and  others  pleasure,”  replied  the  artist.  “But  what 
is  the  object?  What  do  you  intend  doing  with  the  pic- 
ture?” asked  the  gentleman.  “I  wish  to  look  at  it,  and 
to  let  others  look  at  it.”  “Well,”  asked  the  gentleman, 
“ what  is  the  object?  Do  you  expect  to  sell  the  picture?” 
“No,”  said  the  artist;  “I  intend  to  keep  it.”  “Well, 


262  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

then,  what  in  the'world  is  the  object?”  “Oh,”  said  the 
artist,  “I  intend  to  paint  other  pictures  from  it,  and  to  sell 
them.”  “Ah ! ” said  the  gentleman,  “I  knew  there  was  an 
object.”  The  old  gentleman  evidently  looked  at  Art  in 
about  the  same  light  in  which  it  was  seen  by  Louis  Gay- 
lord Clarke’s  “successful  Yankee  speculator,”  who  visited 
Powers’  studio  in  Florence,  which  contained  the  “Greek 
Slave.” 

Enter  stranger,  spitting  and  wiping  his  lips  with  his 
hand:  “Be  yeou  Mr.  Powers,  the  skulpture?”  “I  am  a 
sculptor,  and  my  name  is  Powers.”  “Y-e-a-s;  well,  I 
’spected  so;  they  tell’d  me  you  was  — y-e-a-s.  Look 
here  — drivin’  a pretty  stiff  business  — eh?  ” “Sir?”  “I 
say,  plenty  to  du  — eh?  What  d’s  one  o’  them  fetch?” 
“Sir?”  “I  ask’t  ye  what ’s  the  price  of  one  of  them,  seech 
as  you’re  peckin’  at  neow.”  “I  am  to  have  three  thou- 
sand dollars  for  this,  when  it  is  completed.”  “W-h-a-t  ! 
— heowmuch?”  “ Three  thousand  dollars.”  “T-h-r-e-e  — 
t-h-o-u-s-a-n  d — d-o-l-l-a-r-s  ! Hain’t  statewary  riz  lately  ! 
I was  calc’latin’  to  buy  some;  but  it’s  tew  high.  How-’s 
paintin’?  Guess  I must  git  some  paintin’s.  T-h-r-e-e  — 
t-h-o-u-s-a-n-d  — d-o-l-l-a-r-s  ! Well,  it  is  a trade,  skulpin’ 
is  — that’s  sartin.  What  do  they  make  yeou  pay  for  tools  and 
stuff?  ’Spect  my  oldest  boy,  Cephas,  could  skulp;  ’fact,  I 
know  he  could.  He  is  always  whittlin’  reound,  and  cuttin’ 
away  at  things.  I wish  you’d  ’gree  to  take  him  ’prentice, 
and  let  him  go  at  it  full  chisel.  D’  you  know  where  I ’d  be 
liable  to  put  him  eout?  He’d  cut  stun’  a’ ter  a while 
with  the  best  o’  ye,  he  would;  and  make  money,  tew,  at 
them  prices.  T-h-r-e-e  — t-h-o-u-s-a-n-d  — d-o-l-l-a-r-s!” 
And  the  “anxious  inquirer”  left  the  presence.  He  now 
exhibits  a “lot”  of  “first-rate  paintin’s”  to  his  friends. 

That  distinguished  votary  of  science,  the  late  Dr.  John 
Locke,  to  whom  we  have  referred  in  another  part  of  this 
article,  took  a very  great  interest  in  Frankenstein’s  paint- 
ings, and  during  the  artist’s  youth  did  everything  in  his 


GO  D FREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN.  263  • 

power  to  encourage  the  growth  of  his  genius.  We  have 
heard  an  incident  related  of  his  seeing  a view  of  Lake 
Bemis,  White  Mountains,  where  he  had  never  been,  and 
remarking,  “In  the  woods,  just  back  of  the  shore  on  the 
opposite  side,  it  is  marshy.’ * Such  indeed  was  really  the 
case. 

Some  time  ago,  Mr.  Abbott  Lawrence  engaged  Mr. 
Frankenstein  to  go  to  Groton,  and  sketch  the  old  home- 
stead of  the  family.  From  the  sketches,  Mr.  Lawrence 
selected  two,  from  which  larger  pictures  should  be  painted. 
There  was  a fine  old  elm-tree  in  the  front  yard.  In  one 
of  the  small  sketches,  the  tree  was  a little  too  high  — as  it 
is  out  of  the  question,  in  order  to  have  the  foliage  grace- 
ful and  natural,  to  confine  the  brush  to  an  exact  limit.  In 
the  manipulation,  the  tree  may  be  a little  too  large,  or  a 
little  too  small.  In  a small  picture,  a little  difference  will 
be  very  perceptible,  but  in  a large  picture  it  would  not  be 
observed.  Mr.  F.  said  to  Mr.  Lawrence:  “Yes,  the  tree 
is  a little  too  high  — the  sixteenth  of  an  inch.” 

“ Oh,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  a great  deal  more  than  that.” 

The  artist  explained  the  matter  to  Mr.  L.,  who  still  in- 
sisted that  the  tree  in  the  picture  was  a great  deal  too  large. 

Mr.  F.  asked  him  how  high  he  supposed  the  old  tree  to 
be.  Mr.  L.  answered  : “It  is  between  forty-five  and  fifty 
feet  high.” 

The  artist  replied  that  he  had  never  measured  a tree  in  his 
life,  but  that  he  was  satisfied  that  the  tree  was  not  under 
sixty  feet.  Mr.  L.  said : “Oh,  my  dear  sir,  it  is  not  so  high 
as  that.  ’ ’ But  Mr.  F.  adhered  to  his  point. 

Mr.  Lawrence  then  said:  “I’ll  tell  you  what  you  do, 
Mr.  Frankenstein  : you  write  to  my  old  teacher,  Mr. 
Butler,  and  he  will  measure  the  tree  for  you.”  Mr.  F. 
did  so ; and  requested  him  to  measure  the  house  at  the 
same  time. 

In  due  time,  Mr.  B.  wrote  that  the  house  was  twenty- 


264 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


nine  and  a half  feet  in  height ; and  that  he  estimated  the 
tree  to  be  fifteen  feet  higher  ; which  of  course  made  the  tree 
forty-four  and  a half  feet.  Mr.  F.  gave  the  letter  to  Mr. 
Lawrence,  and  asked  him  what  he  thought  of  it. 

“ Well,  the  tree  is  higher  than  that.  It  may  be  fifty  feet, 
but  not  more.” 

The  artist  repeated  his  former  assertion,  that  the  tree  was 
not  an  inch  under  sixty  feet. 

“Well,  Mr.  Frankenstein,  you  write  to  my  brother-in- 
law,  Dr.  Greene,  and  he  will  measure  the  tree  for  you.” 
Frankenstein  wrote,  and  in  a few  days  got  the  reply 
that  the  tree  was  exactly  sixty-six  and  a half  feet  high. 
He  handed  the  letter  to  Mr.  Lawrence,  and  in  a day  or 
two  afterward  called  to  bid  him  good-by  before  setting  out 
for  Cincinnati.  Mr.  L.  took  the  letter  from  the  mantel- 
piece, and  handed  it  to  Mr.  F. 

“Well,  Mr.  Lawrence,”  asked  the  latter,  “what  do  you 
think  of  the  old  elm  now  ? ’ ’ 

“Ah,”  he  replied,  in  his  hearty  manner,  “you  are  quite 
right  about  that.  It  is  a fine  old  tree.” 

Frankenstein’s  genius  is  not  confined  to  landscape' 
painting.  He  is  as  great  in  portraits  as  he  is  in  landscapes. 
His  lifelike  and  natural  portraits  of  Noble  Butler,  and 
William  Cullen  Bryant,  General  J.  W.  Keifer,  Dr.  Wil- 
liam H.  Mussey,  and  Mr.  John  L.  Whetstone,  of  Cincin- 
nati, are  indeed  splendid  examples  of  his  success  in  this 
difficult  branch  of  his  profession. 

We  say  difficult,  because  it  seems  to  us  that  none  but  a 
portrait  painter  can  form  the  least  idea  of  the  strange  and 
wonderful  and  peculiar  gifts  required  in  this  “so  potent 
art.”  The  human  countenance  is  constantly  varying.  It 
is  never  the  same.  It  may  have  a hundred  different  ex- 
pressions in  an  instant,  expressions  that  pass  over  it  as 
swiftly  as  the  shadow  of  a summer  cloud  crosses  a sunlit 
field.  Frankenstein  understands  fully  these  difficulties, 


GODFREY  N.  FRANKENSTEIN. 


265 


and  has  triumphed  over  them.  He  does  not  paint  the 
mere  form  and  features  of  his  subjects,  but  their  qualities 
and  humors.  He  seems  to  look  down  into  their  very  souls, 
and  to  shadow  forth  their  inmost  thoughts  and  feelings, 
sentiments  and  passions.  This  gift  is  particularly  notice- 
able in  the  portrait  of  Noble  Butler.  The  artist  has  con- 
centrated into  a single  look  the  whole  mind  and  heart  of 
this  distinguished  author.  Truth,  love,  honor,  patience, 
energy,  benignity,  depth  of  thought  and  penetration, 
firmness  and  decision  of  character,  are  each  and  all  por- 
trayed as  if  in  life. 

Frankenstein  painted,  during  a visit  to  Montreal,  in 
1844,  a portrait  of  a beautiful  little  boy  two  years  and  a 
half  old,  that  attracted  a great  deal  of  attention.  On  a sub- 
sequent visit  to  that  city  he  saw  the  father  of  the  child,  and 
asked  him  how  the  portrait  looked.  “Just  like  him,” 
said  the  father,  “and  will  always  look  like  him.” 

A gentleman  of  New  York,  of  high  culture,  for  whom 
Mr.  Frankenstein  painted  a picture  of  “ The  Mont  Blanc 
Chain,”  thus  wrote  to  him: 

“The  picture  is  quite  a favorite  in  the  family,  and  is 
very  generally  liked  by  such  of  our  visitors  as  are  entitled 

to  be  judges.  Mrs.  desires  me  to  .say  that  it  is  like 

old  wine,  the  older  it  grows  the  better  she  likes  it ; not  that 
she  is  particularly  fond  of  old  wine  ; the  comparison  seems 
to  express  her  feeling  in  the  matter.  Our  daughter,  who 
has  just  returned  from  Rome,  says,  4 1 like  the  picture  more 
and  more.  It  is  a real  pleasure  to  look  up  to  it.’  ” 

Mr.  Frankenstein  has,  with  one  exception,  the  original 
copies  of  all  the  pictures  he  has  painted  on  the  spot.  He 
has,  as  may  be  readily  supposed,  one  of  the  largest  collec- 
tions of  landscape  paintings  in  the  country. 

He  is  in  the  prime  of  life,  and  is  one  of  the  most  indus- 
trious men  that  ever  lived.  He  applies  all  his  energies  to 
the  duties  of  his  profession  with  the  devotion  of  an  enthu- 

23 


266 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


siast.  He  has  a great  range  of  knowledge,  and  a wonderful 
perception  of  the  qualities  and  relations  of  things.  His 
learning  is  both  thorough  and  profound.  He  is  a philoso- 
pher, a reasoner,  and  an  observer.  He  is  a laborious 
student.  He  is  not  wedded  to  any  dogmas.  He  is  con- 
stant, methodical,  and  unremitting  in  the  performance  of 
his  duties.  He  is  none  the  less  distinguished  for  his  exem- 
plary conduct  in  all  the  relations  of  private  life.  The 
beautiful  and  childlike  simplicity  of  his  character,  the 
unobtrusive  modesty  of  his  manners,  and  the  refinement 
and  purity  of  his  principles,  have  won  for  him  love,  honor, 
obedience,  and  troops  of  friends. 


MACKENZIE’S  LIFE  OF  DICKENS. 


MACKENZIE’S  LIFE  OF  DICKENS. 


HIS  is  one  of  the  most  satisfactory  biographies  ever 


given  to  the  public.  The  author,  Robert  Shelton 
Mackenzie,  is  a man  of  the  highest  order  of  talent  and 
culture.  Instead  of  thrusting  himself  forward  in  high- 
sounding  sentences  and  phantasmagoric  images,  he  is  con- 
tent to  give,  in  a plain  and  straightforward  manner,  a clear, 
succinct,  and  condensed  account  of  the  life  and  writings 
of  the  great  English  novelist. 

The  reader  is  introduced  at  once  into  the  very  heart  of 
the  subject.  There  are  no  mysterious  avenues  of  approach 
to  it ; no  by-ways;  no  interminable  labyrinths  of  conceits 
and  theories  ; no  mis e-en- scenes  ; no  chaos  of  passions  and 
fancies ; no  turbid  confusedness  and  excursive  disserta- 
tions ; no  horrible  shadows  and  unreal  mockeries ; but,  in 
their  stead,  the  plain,  simple,  and  unvarnished  truth,  the 
whole  truth,  and  nothing  but  the  truth. 

We  see  Dickens,  in  Mackenzie’s  pages,  precisely  as  he 
appeared  to  those  who  best  knew  him  and  loved  him.  We 
see  him  both  as  a man  and  as  an  author.  No  single  virtue 
is  slighted,  no  single  vice  overlooked. 

In  the  introductory  chapter  we  have  the  following  beau- 
tiful tribute  to  this  king  of  letters : 

“ The  greatest  writer  of  his  age  is  gone,  and  the  sudden 
blow  has  smitten  the  great  heart  of  humanity.  There  is  no 
23  * 269 


2/0  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

part  of  the  civilized  world  where  the  name  of  Charles 
Dickens  is  unknown,  where  his  genial  and  elevating 
writings  are  not  valued.  They  have  been  translated  into 
many  languages,  and  the  characters  which  he  created  and 
the' adventures  in  which  he  placed  them  have  passed  into 
the* current  literature  of  the  world.  Every  reader  mourns 
for  him  — the  lowliest  as  welTas  the  highest  participate  in 
one  common  sorrow.  Life  has  been  better  and  brighter 
for  what  he  has  done.*  -He  was  the  champion  of  the  op- 
pressed, he  was  the  censor  of  the  selfish  rich.  In  a single 
one  of  his  tales  was  matter  far  more  serious  and  convincing 
than  could  be  found  in  a pyramid  of  lengthy  homilies  in 
which  Christian ‘charity  was  distinguished  by  its  absence. 
Even  when  he  amused,  he  taught.  No  vile  thoughts,  no 
prurient  suggestions,  no  foul  words  are  to  be  found  in  the 
writings  of  Charles  Dickens.  Even  when  he  treated  of 
crime  * and  poverty,  his  language  was  not  base  or  low. 
The  practical  spirit  he  endeavored  to  inculcate  was  that  of 
comprehensive  Christianity.  His  personal  character  was 
in  accordance  with  his  teaching.  Charitable,  kind-hearted, 
affectionate,  temperate  in  living,  ever  doing  his  work  as  if 
he  felt  it  a pleasure  rather  than  a labor,  there  was  a daily 
beauty  in  his  life,  in  its  earnestness,  in  its  simplicity,  in  its 
purity,  which  was  an  exemplar  in  itself.’ ’ 

The  anecdotes  with  which  Dr.  Mackenzie  illustrates 
the  fact  that  Dickens’s  name  is  not  written  in  the  Her- 
alds’ books  at  Doctors-Commons,  are  full  of  the  deepest 
interest. 

The  story  of  Tom  Moore  is  particularly  good.  On  one 
occasion  Moore  was  the  guest  of  the  then  Prince  of  Wales, 
afterward  George  the  Fourth. 

While  the  poet  “was  brightening  the  horizon  of  the 
board  with  wit  and  song,”  his  royal  host  observed,  “By 
the  way,  Moore,  your  surname  is  the  same  as  that  of  the 
Marquis  of  Drogheda  ? I shall  ask  him  here,  one  of  these 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  271 

days,  to  meet  you.  Of  course,  you  belong  to  this  family B” 
There  was  a moment’s  pause,  and  then  the  poet  answered, 
“ Our  common  descent  is  the  same,  I believe  — from  Adam. 
But  I desire  to  inform  your  royal  highness  that  I am  not 
akin  to  the  peerage.  My  father  was  son  of  a County- 
Kerry  farmer,  and  to  this  day  keeps  a grocer’s  shop  in 
Dublin,  where  I was  born ‘and  bred.”  “The  manliness 
and  independence  of  this  response,”  says  the  author,  “cer- 
tainly did  not  injure  Moore  — who' usually  was  somewhat 
of  a tuft-hunter  — in  the  opinion  of  those  who  heard 
it.” 

This  anecdote  is  followed  by  one  of  Lord  Thurlow. 

A gentleman  from  the  Heralds’  College.once  called  Upon 
Lord  Thurlow,  when  he  was  created  a peer,  for  the  pur- 
pose of  finding  out  the  particulars  of  his  descent. 

The  gentleman  from  the  Heralds*  College  said,  “I  sup- 
pose I may  safely  set  you  down  as  of  the  same  blood  with 
another  Norfolk  celebrity,  John  Thurloe,  who  was  Secre- 
tary of  State  to  the  Commonwealth,  under  Oliver  and 
Richard  Cromwell?”  Thurlow,  who  was  impetuous  and 
rough,  immediately  blustered  out,  “You  are  wrong  alto- 
gether: John  Thurloe  was  an  Essex  man,  and  I am  from 
Suffolk.  He  came  of  an  old  stock.  There  was  one  Thur- 
low, in  my  part  of  the  county,  who  was  a common  carrier, 
and  I think,  as  he  was  an  honest  man,  that  you  had  better 
derive  my  lineage  from  him." 

We  are  then  told  that  Charles  Dickens,  “like  many 
other  illustrious  persons,  had  no  ancestry  to  boast  of;” 
that  “he  went  through  life  extremely  well  without  crest  or 
’scutcheon;”  and  “that  he  was  content  to  draw  his  no- 
bility direct  from  the  Creator.” 

Dickens’s  father  was  Mr.  John  Dickens,  a Government 
clerk,  and  a man  of  many  noble  traits  of  character.  His 
wife,  Mrs.  Elizabeth  Dickens,  is  said  to  have  resembled 
Mrs.  Nickleby.  She  was  thin  and  tall,  and  very  dressy, 


272 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


with  a wasp’s  waist,  of  which  she  was  very  proud.  Dr. 
Mackenzie  says  of  her:  “ She  was  a good  wife,  very  fond 
of  her  husband,  devoted  to  her  children,  and  extremely 
proud  of  her  son  Charles,  who  was  kind  and  liberal  to  her 
from  the  time  it  was  in  his  power  to  be  so.” 

We  have,  also,  in  the  first  chapter,  a very  graphic  ac- 
count of  the  Dickens  family.  We  regret,  however,  that 
the  author  has  not  given  us  a more  extended  account  of 
Augustus  Dickens,  who  is  said  to  have  been  the  original 
Boz,  or  Boses.  Speaking  of  Boz,  Mackenzie  makes  men- 
tion of  something  altogether  new  to  us.  He  says  that 
Dickens,  in  one  of  his  Prefaces,  explains  the  pseudonym 
of  Boz,  saying:  “ It  was  the  nickname  of  a pet  child,  a 
younger  brother,  whom  I had  dubbed  Moses,  in  honor 
of  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield ; which,  being  facetiously  pro- 
nounced through  the  nose,  became  Boses,  and  being  short- 
ened, became  Boz.  . . . Boz  was  a very  familiar  house- 
hold word  to  me,  long  before  I was  an  author,  and  so  I 
came  to  adopt  it.” 

Dr.  Mackenzie  dwells  with  a good  deal  of  enthusiasm  on 
Dickens’s  education,  and  his  connection  with  the  news- 
paper press,  and  refers  with  singular  pride  and  pleasure 
to  his  having  been  a reporter  to  the  London  Morning 
Chronicle.  He  says  that  “he  immediately  took  rank  in 
the  van  for  the  accuracy  and  the  neatness  of  his  reports, 
and  the  rapidity  with  which  he  transcribed  his  notes.  At 
one  of  the  dinners  of  the  Press  Fund,  in  London,  where 
he  occupied  the  chair,  he  told  his  audience  that  the  habits 
of  his  early  life  as  a reporter  so  clung  to  him,  that  he 
seldom  listened  to  a clever  speech  without  his  fingers 
mechanically  and  unconsciously  going  through  the  process 
of  reporting  it.” 

The  reader  will  thank  the  author  for  including  in  his 
work  some  sly  strictures  on  the  vanity  of  N.  P.  Willis  ; but 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  273 

these  can  be  best  illustrated  by  the  subjoined  quotations 
from  the  work  itself. 

“To  this  period  (1835),  when  he  may  be  said  to  have  been 
‘in  a transition  state,’  belongs  a reminiscence  of  Charles 
Dickens,  from  the  pen  of  N.  P.  Willis.  Filtering  out  of 
it  a certain  assumption  of  superiority  on  the  part  of  the 
“ Pencillings  by  the  Way  ” author,  it  may  give  some  idea 
of  what  a professed  and  professional  man  of  society  felt  on 
meeting  such  a gem  as  Dickens  and  not  seeing  the  sparkle. 

“ Mr.  Willis’s  letter,  written  from  London  to  the  National 
Litelligencer  at  Washington,  reads  thus  : 

“ ‘I  was  following  a favorite  amusement  of  mine  one  day 
in  the  Strand,  London  — strolling  toward  the  more  crowded 
thoroughfares,  with  cloak  and  umbrella,  and  looking  at  peo- 
ple and  shop-windows.  I heard  my  name  called  out  by  a 
passenger  in  a street  cab.  From  out  the  smoke  of  the  wet 
straw  peered  the  head  of  my  publisher,  Mr.  Macrone,  (a 
most  liberal  and  noble-hearted  fellow,  since  dead.)  After 
a little  catechism  as  to  my  damp  destiny  for  that  morning, 
he  informed  me  that  he  was  going  to  visit  Newgate,  and 
asked  me  to  join  him.  I willingly  agreed,  never  having 
seen  this  famous  prison ; and  after  I was  seated  in  the  cab, 
he  said  he  was  to  pick  up  on  the  way  a young  paragraphist 
for  the  Morning  Chronicle , who  wished  to  write  a descrip- 
tion of  it.  In  the  most  crowded  part  of  Holborn,  within 
a door  or  two  of  the  Bull  and  Mouth  Inn,  (the  great  start- 
ing and  stopping-place  of  the  stage-coaches,)  we  pulled  up 
at  the  entrance  of  a large  building  used  for  lawyers’  cham- 
bers. Not  to  leave  me  sitting  in  the  rain,  Macrone  asked 
me  to  dismount  with  him.  I followed  by  a long  flight  of 
stairs  to  an  upper  story,  and  was  ushered  into  an  uncarpeted 
and  bleak-looking  room,  with  a deal  table,  two  or  three 
chairs,  and  a few  books,  a small  boy  and  Mr.  Dickens  for 
the  contents.  I was  only  struck  at  first  with  one  thing,  (and 
I made  a memorandum  of  it  that  evening,  as  the  strongest 

S 


274 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


instance  I had  seen  of  English  obsequiousness  to  employers,) 
the  degree  to  which  the  poor  author  was  overpowered  with 
the  honor  of  his  publisher’s  visit  ! I remember  saying  to 
myself,  as  I sat  down  on  a rickety  chair,  “ My  good  fellow, 
if  you  were  in  America,  with  that  fine  face  and  your  ready 
quill,  you  would  have  no  need  to  be  condescended  to  by 
a publisher.”  Dickens  was  dressed  very  much  as  he  has 
since  described  Dick  Swiveller  — minus  the  swell  look. 
His  hair  was  cropped  close  to  his  head,  his  clothes  scant, 
though  jauntily  cut,  and  after  changing  a ragged  office-coat 
for  a shabby  blue,  he  stood  by  the  door,  collarless  and  but- 
toned up,  the  very  personification,  I thought,  of  a close 
sailer  to  the  wind.  We  went  down  and  crowded  into  the 
cab,  (one  passenger  more  than  the  law  allowed,  and  Dickens 
partly  in  my  lap  and  partly  in  Macrone’s,)  and  drove  on  to 
Newgate.  In  his  works,  if  you  remember,  there  is  a descrip- 
tion of  the  prison,  drawn  from  this  day’s  observation.  We 
were  there  an  hour  or  two,  and  were  shown  some  of  the 
celebrated  murderers  confined  for  life,  and  one  young  sol- 
dier waiting  for  execution ; and  in  one  of  the  passages  we 
chanced  to  meet  Mrs.  Fry,  on  her  usual  errand  of  benevo- 
lence. Though  interested  in  Dickens’s  face,  I forgot  him, 
naturally  enough,  after  I entered  the  prison ; and  I do  not 
think  I heard  him  speak  during  the  two  hours.  I parted 
from  him  at  the  door  of  the  prison,  and  continued  my  stroll 
into  the  city.  Not  long  after  this,  Macrone  sent  me  the 
sheets  of  Sketches  by  Boz,  with  a note,  saying  that  they 
were  by  a gentleman  who  went  with  us  to  Newgate.  Two 
or  three  years  afterward  I was  in  London,  and  was  present 
at  the  complimentary  dinner  given  to  Macready.  Samuel 
Lover,  who  sat  next  me,  pointed  out  Dickens.  I looked 
up  and  down  the  table,  but  was  wholly  unable  to  single  him 
out  without  getting  my  friend  to  number  the  people  who  sat 
above  him.  He  was  no  more  like  the  same  man  I had  seen 
than  a tree  in  June  is  like  the  same  tree  in  February.  He 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  275 

sat  leaning  his  head  on  his  hand,  .while  Bulwer  was  speak- 
ing, and  with  his  very  long  hair,  his  very  flash  waistcoat,  his 
chains  and  rings,  and  withal  a much  paler  face  than  of  old, 
he  was  totally  unrecognizable.  The  comparison  was  very 
interesting  to  me,  and  I looked  at  him  a long  time.  He 
was  then  in  the  culmination  of  his  popularity,  and  seemed 
jaded  to  stupefaction.  Remembering  the  glorious  work  he 
had  written  since  I had  seen  him,  I longed  to  pay  him  my 
homage,  but  had  no  opportunity,  and  I did  not  see  him 
again  till  he  came  over  to  reap  his  harvest  and  upset  his 
hay-cart  in  America.  When  all  the  ephemera  of  his  impru- 
dences and  improvidences  shall  have  passed  away  — say 
twenty  years  hence  — I should  like  to  see  him  again,  re- 
nowned, as  he  will  be,  for  the  most  original  and  remarkable 
works  of  his  time.’ 

“ Remembering,”  says  Mackenzie,  “ what  manner  of 
man  Mr.  N.  P.  Willis  was,  fashioning  himself  on  the  model 
of  Count  D’Orsay,  that  mere  tailor’s  block  for  the  exhibi- 
tion of  unpaid-for  garments ; the  above  description  is  to 
be  taken,  like  his  own  notes  of  hand , at  a considerable  dis- 
count. The  idea  of  taking  or  mistaking  Charles  Dickens 
then,  with  a good  engagement,  for  a young  paragraphist  for 
the  Morning  Chronicle , and  of  fancying  that  he  resembled 
Dick  Swiveller,  ‘ minus  the  swell  look,’  in  his  appearance, 
is  too  heavy  a draught  upon  human  credulity.  It  is  only  sur- 
prising, when  he  mentioned  the  ‘hair  cropped  close  to  his 
head,’  that  this  self-appointed  ‘arbiter  elegantiarum  ’ did 
not  suggest  that  probably  it  had  not  grown  since  Dickens 
had  last- taken  his  month’s  exercise  upon  the  tread-mill  at 
the  House  of  Correction  in  Brixton  ! Yet  the  writer  of  such 
stuff  would  have  been  terribly  offended  if  any  one  had  told 
him  it  was  impertinent  and  ungentlemanly,  with  a prob- 
able seasoning  of  spite  and  falsehood.” 

Dr.  Mackenzie  points  out,  with  the  utmost  care,  Dick- 
ens’s method  of  work.  He  says  every  document  in  his 


276  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

possession,  from  the  commencement  of  his  literary  career, 
was  duly  docketed,  dated,  and  deposited.  A place  for 
everything,  and  everything  in  its  place,  was  the  ruling 
maxim  of  his  life.  Dr.  M.  regards  him  as  a notable  illus- 
tration of  the  aphorism,  that  genius  is  only  the  perfection 
of  common  sense. 

Mr.  John  W.  Forney  saw  Dickens  quite  often  during 
the  visit  of  the  latter  to  this  country,  and,  in  a conversa- 
tion, informed  us  that  he  had  never  known  a man  of  more 
method  than  Dickens  ; that  it  was  his  constant  effort  to 
discharge,  faithfully  and  regularly,  and  systematically,  all 
the  duties  of  life.  Dickens  told  Mr.  Forney  that  he  was 
in  the  habit  of  walking  eight  or  ten  miles  every  day,  for 
the  purpose  of  developing  his  muscular  strength,  thereby 
the  better  to  enable  him  to  undergo  the  fatigue  of  mental 
labor.  Mr.  Forney  related  to  us  a number  of  amusing 
stories  in  reference  to  Dickens’s  playfulness  and  dissipa- 
tions, but  added,  these  things  did  not  interfere  with  his 
work. 

Hawthorne,  in  his  English  Note-Book,  relates  an  inci- 
dent where  the  great  novelist  acted  in  play  and  farce,  and 
spent  the  rest  of  the  night  in  making  speeches,  feasting, 
and  drinking  at  table,  and  ended  at  seven  o’clock  in  the 
morning  by  jumping  leap-frog  over  the  backs  of  the  whole 
company. 

Dr.  Mackenzie  has  very  appropriately  dedicated  his  Life 
of  Dickens  to  Mr.  Forney,  who  has,  perhaps,  as  high 
an  appreciation  as  any  man  living,  of  the  moral  and  in- 
tellectual worth  of  the  “ great  and  good  man  whom  all 
the  world  mourns.”  Mr.  F.  is,  we  think,  the  foremost 
journalist  of  our  land.  The  first  article  we  ever  saw  from 
his  pen  was  so  full  of  conscientious  truthfulness,  noble- 
ness, and  manliness  of  soul,  that,  in  our  youthful  admira- 
tion, we  called  him 

" The  arm  and  burgonet  of  men.” 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  • .277 

And,  indeed,  even  now,  in  looking  back  over  his  proud 
and  noble  and  eventful  life,  we  see  no  good  reason  to 
change  our  opinion. 

But  to  return.  Dr.  Mackenzie  says  that  “The  Old 
Curiosity  Shop”  is  the  most  poetical,  tender,  and  imagi- 
native of  Dickens’s  compositions,  and  declares  that  Little 
Nell,  the  heroine  of  the  story,  is  superior  to  Mignon,  in 
Goethe’s  Wilhelm  Meister’s  Apprenticeship.  He  says: 
“She  is  the  embodiment  of  youth,  girlish  beauty,  the  wis- 
dom which  comes  from  suffering,  and  perfect  innocence. 
Unfortunately  she  is 

“ * Too  bright  and  good 
For  human  nature’s  daily  food.’ 

“She  is  an  idyllic  impossibility,  and  not  1 of  the  earth, 
earthy.’  She  is  only  too  perfect  — and  her  death  is 
worthy  of  her  life.  Many  a tear  has  been  drawn  forth  by 
her  imaginary  adventures.  Mr.  Dickens  says  of  this  tale  : 
‘ The  many  friends  it  won  me,  and  the  many  hearts  it 
turned  to  me  when  they  were  full  of  private  sorrow,  invest 
it  with  an  interest  in  my  mind  which  is  not  a public  one, 
and  the  rightful  place  of  which  appears  to  be  “a  more  re- 
moved ground.”  I will  merely  observe,  therefore,  that,  in 
writing  the  book,  I had  it  always  in  my  fancy  to  surround 
the  lonely  figure  of  the  child  with  grotesque  and  wild  but 
not  impossible  companions,  and  to  gather  about  her  inno- 
cent face  and  pure  intentions,  associates  as  strange  and  un- 
congenial as  the  grim  objects  that  are  about  her  bed  when 
her  history  is  first  foreshadowed.’ 

“ He  adds,  ‘I  have  a mournful  pride  in  one  recollection 
associated  with  “Little  Nell.”  While  she  was  yet  upon  her 
wanderings,  not  then  concluded,  there  appeared  in  a lit- 
erary journal  an  essay,  of  which  she  was  the  principal 
theme,  so  earnestly,  so  eloquently,  and  tenderly  apprecia- 


24 


2?8 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


tive,  and  of  all  her  shadowy  kith  and  kin,  that  it  would 
have  been  insensibility  in  me  if  I could  have  read  it  with- 
out an  unusual  glow  of  pleasure  and  encouragement.  Long 
afterward,  and  when  I had  come  to  know  him  well,  and  to 
see  him,  stout  of  heart,  going  slowly  down  into  his  grave, 
I knew  the  author  of  that  essay  to  be  Thomas  Hood.’  ’’ 

“ Barnaby  Rudge’’  is  placed  even  above  “ The  Tale  of 
the  Two  Cities.  ’ ’ The  author  says  that  it  is  “ the  most 
highly  wrought,  earnest,  and  powerful  of  all  the  novelist's 
works." 

The  author  gives  here  a brief  criticism  upon  nearly  all 
the  leading  characters  in  the  book.  He  says:  “In  the  van 
are  Barnaby  and  his  illustrious  raven,  to  be  known  through 
all  time  as  well  as  Lance’s  dog,  sketched  by  Shakspeare. 
Without  Grip,  poor  mad  Barnaby  would  resemble  a ship 
without  rudder.  The  two  must  go  together.  Grip  was, 
evidently,  one  of  Dickens’s  favorites,  for  a supplementary 
notice  in  his  last  Preface  thus  disposes  of  him  : 

“ ‘The  raven,  in  this  story,  is  a compound  of  two  great 
originals,  of  whom  I have  been  at  different  times  the  proud 
possessor.  The  first  was  in  the  bloom  of  his  youth  when 
he  was  discovered  in  a modest  retirement  in  London,  by  a 
friend  of  mine,  and  given  to  me.  He  had,  from  the  first, 
as  Sir  Hugh  Evans  says  of  Anne  Page,  “good  gifts,’’ 
which  he  improved  by  study  and  attention,  in  the  most 
exemplary  manner.  He  slept  in  a stable — generally  on 
horseback  — and  so  terrified  a Newfoundland  dog  by  his 
preternatural  sagacity,  that  he  has  been  known,  by  the  mere 
superiority  of  his  genius,  to  walk  off  unmolested  with  the 
dog’s  dinner  from  before  his  face.  He  was  rapidly  rising 
in  acquirements  and  virtues,  when,  in  an  evil  hour,  his 
stable  was  newly  painted.  He  observed  the  workmen 
closely,  saw  that  they  were  careful  of  the  paint,  and  imme- 
diately burned  to  possess  it.  On  their  going  to  dinner,  he 
ate  up  all  they  had  left  behind,  consisting  of  a pound  or 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  279 

two  of  white  lead,  and  this  youthful  indiscretion  terminated 
in  his  death. 

‘ ‘ ‘ While  I was  yet  inconsolable  for  his  loss,  another  friend 
of  mine,  in  Yorkshire,  discovered  a more  gifted  raven  at 
a village  public-house,  which  he  prevailed  upon  the  land- 
lord to  part  with  for  a consideration,  and  sent  up  to  me. 
The  first  act  of  this  sage  was  to  administer  to  the  effects 
of  his  predecessor,  by  disinterring  all  the  cheese  and  half- 
pence he  had  buried  in  the  garden  — a work  of  immense 
labor  and  research,  to  which  he  devoted  all  the  energies 
of  his  mind.  When  he  had  achieved  this  task,  he  applied 
himself  to  the  acquisition  of  stable  language,  in  which  he 
soon  became  such  an  adept  that  he  would  perch  outside 
my  window,  and  drive  imaginary  horses  with  great  skill, 
all  day ; perhaps  even  I never  saw  him  at  his  best,  for  his 
former  master  sent  his  duty  with  him,  “and  if  I wished  the 
bird  to  come  out  very  strong,  would  I be  so  good  as  show 
him  a drunken  man  ” — which  I never  did,  having  (unfor- 
tunately) none  but  sober  people  at  hand.  But  I could 
hardly  have  respected  him  more,  whatever  the  stimulating 
influences  of  this  sight  might  have  been.  He  had  not  the 
least  respect,  I am  sorry  to  say,  for  me  in  return,  or  for 
anybody  but  the  cook ; to  whom  he  was  attached  — but 
only,  I fear,  as  a policeman  might  have  been.  Once  I 
met  him  unexpectedly,  about  half  a mile  off,  walking  down 
the  middle  of  the  public  street,  attended  by  a pretty  large 
crowd,  and  spontaneously  exhibiting  the  whole  of  his  ac- 
complishments. His  gravity  under  those  trying  circum- 
stances I never  can  forget,  nor  the  extraordinary  gallantry 
with  which,  refusing  to  be  brought  home,  he  defended 
himself  behind  a pump,  until  overpowered  by  numbers. 
It  may  have  been  that  he  was  too  bright  a genius  to  live 
long,  or  it  may  have  been  that  he  took  some  pernicious 
substance  into  his  bill,  and  thence  into  his  maw  — which 
is  not  improbable,  seeing  that  he  new-pointed  the  greater 


28o  studies  in  literature. 

part  of  the  garden-wall  by  digging  out  the  mortar,  broke 
countless  squares  of  glass  by  scraping  away  the  putty  all 
round  the  frames,  and  tore  up  and  swallowed,  in  splinters, 
the  greater  part  of  a wooden  staircase  of  six  steps  and  a 
landing  — but  after  some  three  years  he  too  was  taken  ill, 
and  died  before  the  kitchen  fire.  He  kept  his  eye  to  the 
last  upon  the  meat  as  it  roasted,  and  suddenly  turned  over 
on  his  back  with  a sepulchral  cry  of  “ Cuckoo  ! ” 

“ ‘ After  this  mournful  deprivation,  I was,  for  a long  time, 
ravenless.  The  kindness  of  another  friend,  at  length,  pro- 
vided me  with  another  raven  ; but  he  is  not  a genius.  He 
leads  the  life  of  a hermit,  in  my  little  orchard,  on  the  sum- 
mit of  Shakspeare’s  “ Gad’s  Hill ; ” he  has  no  relish  for  so- 
ciety ; he  gives  no  evidence  of  ever  cultivating  his  mind  ; 
and  he  has  picked  up  nothing  but  meat  ever  since  I have 
known  him  — except  the  faculty  of  barking  like  a dog.’  ” 

Dr.  Mackenzie’s  remarks  upon  “ David  Copperfield,” 
the  greatest  and  most  natural  and  lifelike  of  all  Dickens’s 
creations,  are  very  meagre,  but  they  show  a close  study 
of  the  work,  and  a high  appreciation  of  its  many  excel- 
lences. 

But  we  are  somewhat  surprised  to  find  this  admira- 
ble critic  bestowing  a few  words  of  praise  on  the  char- 
acter of  the  hero,  Master  Davy.  Indeed,  it  has  always 
seemed  strange  to  us  that  David  Copperfield  himself  should 
receive  praise  from  any  one  ; yet,  however,  many  think 
that  Dickens,  in  delineating  the  character,  endeavored  to 
portray  his  own  literary  career.  But  such  is  not  the  case. 
There  are  no  points  of  resemblance  between  Dickens  and 
his  hero.  David  Copperfield  is  constantly  prating  of  his 
own  goodness ; while,  on  the  other  hand,  unobtrusive 
modesty,  in  both  feeling  and  sentiment,  is  one  of  Dick- 
ens’s greatest  characteristics.  David  Copperfield  never 
stops  for  a moment  to  reason  on  the  principles  that  control 
human  conduct.  He  does  not  reason  at  all.  He  is  inca- 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  281 

pable  of  it.  The  author  did  not  endow  him  with  that 
quality.  He  is  good,  because  he  cannot  help  it;  but  there 
is  no  judgment  about  his  goodness.  Indeed,  if  we  did  not 
kno'w  that  Dickens  had  selected  him  to  tell  the  story,  we 
should  be  inclined  to  think  that  the  author  was  imposing 
on  our  credulity,  and  drawing  the  portrait  of  a good-na- 
tured idiot,  instead  of  a perfectly  modelled  man  after  the 
most  approved  fashion  of  virtue  and  excellence.  David 
Copperfield’s  prosy  morality  is  absolutely  insufferable. 

Agnes  is  another  character  in  the  book  that  receives 
much  more  praise  than  she  is  entitled  to,  but  it  has  become 
the  fashion  to  admire  her,  and  we  suppose  there  is  no  way 
of  stopping  it.  She  is  a very  ordinary  and  commonplace 
character,  but  a very  suitable  companion  for  such  a man  as 
David  Copperfield.  The  world  is  full  of  just  such  women 
as  she.  We  meet  them  constantly  in  our  daily  intercourse 
with  society,  and  they  are  harmless  in  their  way.  Indeed, 
we  have  failed  to  discover  a single  excellence  in  Agnes 
that  we  cannot  find  in  just  as  high  a degree  in  the  char- 
acter of  any  respectable  woman  of  ordinary  sense  and  feel- 
ing. But  Dora  is  a creation  of  genius.  She  has  the  most 
exquisite  sensibilities  and  the  purest  imaginings.  She  is  a 
living,  breathing  personation  of  the  most  perfect  dream  of 
poetic  loveliness.  The  reader  is  moved  to  tears  at  her  un- 
availing efforts  to  adapt  her  ethereal  nature  to  the  coarse 
and  practical  uses  of  the  people  by  whom  she  is  surrounded. 
The  only  error  she  committed  was  falling  in  love  with 
David  Copperfield.  If  she  had  been  wedded  to  a man  of 
sense  and  high  intellectual  culture,  her  beauty,  her  grace, 
her  constancy,  her  truthfulness,  her  virtue,  simplicity,  and 
innocence  would  have  awakened  him  to  deeds  of  noblest 
emulation,  and  thrown,  as  it  were,  a halo  of  glory  around 
his  existence.  Her  love  is  not  “ tlT  infection  taken  in  at 
the  eyes,”  or  that  of  childish  innocence,  but  a pure  and 
deep  and  holy  attachment,  that  seems  interwoven  with 
24  * 


282 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


her  very  being.  Dora  is  not  an  impossible  creation.  We 
have  met,  in  real  life,  just  such  a character,  and,  instead  of 
being  a drawback  to  her  husband  in  his  onward  career  of 
usefulness,  has,  in  reality,  inspired  all  that  is  excellent  and 
noble  and  praiseworthy  in  him. 

We  deeply  sympathize  with  the  heartfelt  sorrows  of  Dr. 
Strong  and  his  beautiful  wife,  and  shrink  with  horror  from 
the  slimy  body  and  cold,  sweaty  hands  of  Uriah  Heap. 
Rosa  Dartle  is  the  most  disagreeable  character  in  the  book. 
She  is  repulsive  enough  without  the  hideous  scar  so  plainly 
marked  upon  her  forehead.  The  character  of  Steerforth 
commands  attention  even  from  the  most  unappreciative 
readers.  His  portrait  stands  out  in  bold  relief.  He  is 
graced  with  almost  irresistible  accomplishments,  but  allows 
the  finer  feelings  of  his  nature  to  become  tarnished  by 
neglect  and  dissipation,  until  he  yields  to  the  basest  pas- 
sions of  man.  The  scene  in  which  his  death  is  described 
we  have  always  regarded  as  one  of  the  finest  passages  in 
literature. 

Mackenzie  says,  truthfully,  “ There  is  more  wit  and  in- 
tense passion  in  ‘ David  Copperfield,’  than  in  any  other 
of  Dickens’s  stories;  and  the  old  carrier’s  words,  ‘Barkis 
is  willing,’  have  become  a popular  saying,  and  Micawber’s 
‘ waiting  for  something  to  turn  up  ’ is  as  well  known  and 
as  often  repeated  as  a proverb.  Perhaps,  in  all  the  wide 
range  of  his  various  compositions,  the  Micawber  group  is 
the  best  sustained,  with  the  exception,  perhaps,  of  the 
Wellers.  Even  the  twins  come  into  play  to  complete  the 
family  circle.  And  at  the  close,  when  we  read  Micawber’s 
letter  from  Australia,  and  finding  him  doing  well,  and  hon- 
ored as  magistrate,  we  rejoice  that  will  and  circumstances, 
working  together,  have  saved  him,  a good  and  honored 
citizen,  from  what  once  threatened  to  be  a total  wreck.” 

Tommy  Traddles  is  said  to  have  been  intended  for  Sir 
Thomas  Noon  Talfourd,  the  author’s  oldest  and  best 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  283 

friend  ; but  Mackenzie  remarks  that  “ the  sketch  is  scarcely 
complimentary,”  and  we  are  inclined  to  agree  with  him, 
particularly  when  we  are  reminded  of  the  ridiculous  ap- 
pearance Traddles  makes  with  his  nervous  eccentricities 
and  sky-blue  tights. 

Whether  Dickens’s  own  history  is  revealed  in  “ David 
Copperfield  ” or  not,  it  is  certain  that  it  was  his  favorite 
novel.  He  has  himself  said  of  it : 

“I  do  not  find  it  easy  to  get  sufficiently  far  away  from 
this  book,  in  the  first  sensations  of  having  finished  it,  to 
refer  to  it  with  the  composure  which  this  formal  heading 
would  seem  to  require.  My  interest  in  it  is  so  recent  and 
strong ; and  my  mind  is  so  divided  between  pleasure  and 
regret  — pleasure  in  the  achievement  of  a long  design,  re- 
gret in  the  separation  from  many  companions — that  I am 
in  danger  of  wearying  the  reader  whom  I love,  with  per- 
sonal confidences,  and  private  emotions. 

“ Besides  which,  all  that  I could  say  of  the  story,  to  any 
purpose,  I have  endeavored  to  say  in  it. 

“It  would  concern  the  reader  little,  perhaps,  to  know  how 
sorrowfully  the  pen  is  laid  down  at  the  close  of  a two-years’ 
imaginative  task  ; or  how  an  author  feels  as  if  he  were  dis- 
missing some  portion  of  himself  into  the  shadowy  world, 
when  a crowd  of  the  creatures  of  his  brain  are  going  from 
him  forever.  Yet,  I have  nothing  else  to  tell ; unless,  in- 
deed, I were  to  confess  (which  might  be  of  less  moment 
still)  that  no  one  can  ever  believe  this  narrative,  in  the 
reading,  more  than  I have  believed  it  in  the  writing.” 

One  of  the  most  interesting  chapters  in  Mackenzie’s 
work,  is  that  devoted  to  the  examination  of  Dickens’s 
poetry.  He  says : 

“It  does  not  follow,  as  many  think,  that  poetry  must 
consist  of  metre,  measured  language,  rhyme,  or  rhythm. 
There  are  poets  in  prose  as  well  as  in  verse.  There  is  the 
truth  as  well  as  the  pathetic  tenderness  of  poetry  in  that 


284 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


short  and  simple  verse  in  the  New  Testament,  ‘Jesus  wept/ 
which  shows  how  entirely,  how  devotedly  the  Saviour 
grafted  our  humanity  upon  His  divinity.” 

On  this  principle,  Mackenzie  argues  with  great  force  and 
beauty  that  “ Charles  Dickens  undoubtedly  was  a poet. 
He  has  not  mere  passages,  but  scenes,  full  of  the  most  sen- 
sitive, natural,  and  impressive  poetry.  ‘ But/  I have  heard 
critics  say,  ‘he  never  printed  them  as  poetry.’  My  friends, 
whether  the  window  through  which  the  glory  of  sunlight 
comes  to  us  be  circular,  square,  or  oval,  or  whether  it  be 
set  in  the  Egyptian,  the  Grecian,  the  Gothic,  or  the  log- 
cabin  order  of  architecture,  the  shape  of  the  medium  does 
not  concern  us  so  much  as  the  light  itself  does, 

“ ‘ As  sunshine,  broken  in  the  rill, 

Though  turned  astray,  is  sunshine  still ; * 

A and  what  light  is  to  the  material  world,  poetry  is  to  the 
intellectual.  Thackeray,  who  was  honest  with  all  his  cyn- 
icism, acknowledged  the  claim  of  Dickens  to  be  ranked 
among  the  poets.  Mr.  Hodder  has  recorded  that,  when 
the  fifth  number  of  ‘ Dombey  and  Son  ’ closed  with  the 
death  of  Little  Paul,  Mr.  Thackeray  appeared  electrified 
at  the  thought  that  there  was  one  man  living  whose  pathos 
could  so  thoroughly  stir  the  depths  of  his  soul ; and  rush- 
ing down  to  the  office  of  Punch , where  the  portly  editor, 
Mr.  Mark  Lemon,  was  correcting  manuscript,  dashed  that 
fifth  number  down  on  the  table,  with  startling  vehemence, 
and  exclaimed,  ‘ There  ’s  no  writing  against  such  power  as 
this  — one  has  no  chance  ! Read  that  chapter  describing 
young  Paul’s  death : it  is  unsurpassed  — it  is  stupendous  ! ’ 
This,  a rival’s  praise,  was,  perhaps,  the  highest  tribute  that 
an  author  could  have  received.” 

Dr.  Mackenzie,  in  the  same  chapter  from  which  we  have 
taken  the  above,  directs  attention  to  the  first  stanza  in 
Shelley’s  “Queen  Mab,”  beginning,  “How  wonderful  is 
death,”  and  says  that  Dickens’s  description  of  Little 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  285 


Nell’s  funeral  is  in  the  same  way  rhythmical,  though  un- 
consciousl) . He  then  gives  the  following  lines,  printed  as 
poetry,  in  which  only  two  words  have  been  omitted  in  it, 
(in  and  its,)  and  he  says,  with  the  exception  of  putting  e' en 
for  almost,  and  gran' dames  for  grandmothers,  everything 
else  is  unchanged  ; not  even  a sentence  transposed,  or  a 
comma  altered  in  the  punctuation. 

LITTLE  NELL’S  FUNERAL. 

And  now  the  bell  — the  bell 
She  had  so  often  heard  by  night  and  day, 

And  listened  to  with  solemn  pleasure, 

E’en  as  a living  voice  — 

Rung  its  remorseless  toll  for  her, 

So  young,  so  beautiful,  so  good. 

Decrepit  age,  and  vigorous  life, 

And  blooming  youth,  and  helpless  infancy, 

Poured  forth  — on  crutches,  in  the  pride  of  strength 
And  health,  in  the  full  blush 
Of  promise,  in  the  mere  dawn  of  life  — 

To  gather  round  her  tomb.  Old  men  were  there, 

Whose  eyes  were  dim 
And  senses  failing  — 

Gran’dames,  who  might  have  died  ten  years  ago, 

And  still  been  old  — the  deaf,  the  blind,  the  lame, 

The  palsied,. 

The  living  dead  in  many  shapes  and  forms, 

To  see  the  closing  of  this  early  grave. 

"What  was  the  death  it  would  shut  in, 

To  that  which  still  could  crawl  and  creep  above  it ! 

Along  the  crowded  path  they  bore  her  now  ; 

Pure  as  the  new-fallen  snow 
That  covered  it ; whose  day  on  earth 
Had  been  as  fleeting. 

Under  that  porch,  where  she  had  sat  when  Heaven 
In  mercy  brought  her  to  that  peaceful  spot, 

She  passed  again,  and  the  old  church 
Received  her  in  its  quiet  shade. 


286 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


We  do  not  think,  however,  that  this  beautiful  description 
is  improved  in  the  least  by  being  printed  as  poetry,  and 
greatly  prefer  to  read  it  as  the  author  wrote  it.  But,  at  the 
same  time,  we  are  free  to  confess  that  it  contains  some  of 
the  finest  poetry  in  the  language. 

Dickens  was  very  fond  of  versifying,  and  a great  many 
of  his  productions  were  printed  anonymously,  in  different 
periodicals.  He  is  the  author  of  the  popular  song,  “Au- 
tumn Leaves.”  In  “ Pickwick,”  he  has  introduced  two  of 
his  lyrics,  “A  Christmas  Carol”  and  “ The  Ivy  Green  ; ” 
but  the  best  poem  he  ever  wrote  is  the  “Hymn  of  the 
Wiltshire  Laborers.”  It  is  so  good,  that  we  cannot  resist 
the  temptation  of  reproducing  it  here. 

“ Oh  God,  who  by  Thy  Prophet’s  hand 
Did’st  smite  the  rocky  brake, 

Whence  water  came  at  Thy  command, 

The  people’s  thirst  to  slake ; 

Strike  now,  upon  this  granite  wall, 

Stern,  obdurate,  and  high, 

And  let  some  drops  of  pity  fall 
For  us  who  starve  and  die  ! 

“ The  God,  who  took  a little  child 
And  set  him  in  the  midst, 

And  promised  him  His  mercy  mild, 

As,  by  Thy  Son,  Thou  did’st : 

Look  down  upon  our  children  dear 
So  gaunt,  so  cold,  so  spare, 

And  let  their  images  appear 
Where  Lords  and  Gentry  are  ! 

“ Oh  God,  teach  them  to  feel  how  we, 

When  our  poor  infants  droop, 

Are  weakened  in  our  trust  in  Thee, 

And  how  our  spirits  stoop  : 

For,  in  Thy  rest,  so  bright  and  fair, 

All  tears  and  sorrows  sleep  : 

And  their  young  looks,  so  full  of  care, 

Would  make  Thine  angels  weep! 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens. 


2S7 


“ The  God,  who  with  His  finger  drew 
The  Judgment  coming  on, 

Write  for  these  men,  what  must  ensue, 

Ere  many  years  be  gone  ! 

Oh  God,  whose  bow  is  in  the  sky, 

Let  them  not  brave  and  dare, 

Until  they  look  (too  late)  on  high 
And  see  an  Arrow  there  ! 

“ Oh  God,  remind  them  ! In  the  bread 
They  break  upon  the  knee, 

These  sacred  words  may  yet  be  read, 

‘ In  memory  of  Me  ! ’ 

Oh  God,  remind  them  of  His  sweet 
Compassion  for  the  poor, 

And  how  He  gave  them  Bread  to  eat, 

And  went  from  door  to  door.” 

Mackenzie  says  that  Dickens’s  observation  was  as  great 
as  his  imagination.  “It  seemed  as  if  he  noticed  every- 
thing he  saw,  and  remembered  whatever  he  noticed.”  Our 
author  does  not  give  him  credit  for  being  a fine  conversa- 
tionist. He  says,  however,  that  he  could  tell  a story  very 
well,  and  with  humorous  exaggeration.  He  also  says  that 
he  could  not  go  into  argument  at  all,  that  he  hated  it. 
Dickens  often  said,  “No  man  but  a fool  was  ever  talked 
out  of  his  own  opinion  and  into  your  state  of  mind.  Ar- 
guments are  only  cannon-balls  fired  at  a sand-bank,  or 
water  poured  into  a sieve  — a sheer  waste  of  time  and 
trouble.  I won’t  argue  with  a man;  it  is  going  down  on 
all-fours  to  an  obstinate  dog.  In  emphatic  cases,  the  only 
argument  is  a punch  of  the  head.  That ’s  a stunner  ! ” 

The  best  retort  Dickens  ever  made,  was  in  reply  to  Mr. 
Lockhart,  the  editor  of  the  Quarterly  Review.  The  Re- 
view contained  a very  savage  criticism  on  one  of  Dick- 
ens’s books,  and  wound  up  with  the  prediction  that  the'- 
author  of  “Nicholas  Nickleby”  “had  gone  up  like  a 
rocket,  and  would  come  down  like  its  stick.”  Some  time 


288 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


after  the  publication  of  this  criticism,  Dickens  was  intro- 
duced to  Lockhart,  at  the  Marquis  of  Northampton’s,  by 
a friend  who  was  imprudent  enough  to  mention  the  con- 
temptible prediction.  Dickens  at  once  grasped  Lockhart’s 
hand,  and  said,  “Well,  Mr.  Lockhart,  I’ll  wait  till  that 
stick  comes  down,  and  when  it  does  I’ll  break  it  over  your 
shoulders.” 

Dr.  Mackenzie  relates  very  charmingly  the  following 
story  about  Dickens  and  Thackeray : 

“ One  day,  after  dinner,  some  ‘ mutual  friend,’  after  the 
death  of  Mr.  Angus  B.  Reach,  told  Dickens  that  once 
upon  a time,  Thackeray  had  made  a good  hit  on  the  clever 
young  Scotchman’s  pertinacity  as  regarded  the  pronuncia- 
tion of  his  surname.  It  seemed  that,  at  dessert,  Thackeray 
had  addressed  him  as  ‘Mr.  Reech,’  the  obvious  way  of 
pronouncing  the  name.  ‘No,  sir,’  was  the  indignant  re- 
ply, ‘my  name  is  pronounced  Ree-ack — in  two  syllables.’ 
Without  giving  any  verbal  reply,  Thackeray  politely 
handed  his  neighbor  a peach,  saying,  ‘ Mr.  Ree-ack , will 
you  allow  me  to  help  you  to  a pee-ack  ? ’ The  story  was 
neatly  told,  and  the  rewarding  smile  went  round.  ‘ Did 

you  say  that?  ’ asked  Dickens.  ‘ Certainly.’  ‘And  think 
it  original?’  ‘Of  course.  Perhaps  you  said  it?’  ‘No,’ 
replied  Dickens,  with  a merry  twinkle  of  the  eye,  ‘ but  I 
was  at  Lord  John  Russell’s  the  other  day,  and,  having  to 
wait  for  him  a few  minutes,  took  up  a book,  which  hap- 
pened to  be  one  of  the  volumes  of  Tom  Moore’s  Diary. 
There  I read,  under  date  of  1826,  I think,  that  Luttrell, 
the  wit,  dining  next  a gentleman  whose  father  invented  the 
small  napkins,  or  serviettes , used,  after  dinner,  to  put  finger- 
glasses  or  wine-glasses  upon,  addressed  him  as  “ Mr.  Roy - 
ley ,”  and  was  informed,  rather  angrily,  that  the  real  name 
was  Deh’-Oyley,  with  a long  rest  between  the  elided  pre- 
position “ D ” (or  de)  and  the  rest  of  the  word.  “ Very 
well,”  said  Luttrell,  in  his  blandest  manner,  pointing  to  a 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  289 

neighboring  dumpling  on  the  table,  “ may  I trouble  you, 
Mr.  D’ — Oyley,  for  a little  of  that  d’ — umpling.”  So,’ 

added  Dickens,  turning  triumphantly  to  Thackeray,  6 your 
joke  is  at  least  thirty  years  old.  Where  did  you  hear  of 
Luttrell’s?’  The  wit  protested  that  it  was  his  own,  and 
even  questioned  its  existence  in  Moore.  But  the  volume 
was  referred  to,  and  found  to  contain  Luttrell’s  jeu  d' esprit. 
Probably  Thackeray  had  never  heard  of  it,  but  the  mere 
idea  of  plagiarism  so  much  annoyed  him  that  he  did  not 
utter  ten  words  more  during  the  remainder  of  that  evening.  ’ ’ 
Dickens’s  dress  is  thus  briefly  described : 

“ His  personal  taste  in  dress  was  always  ‘loud.’  He 
loved  gay  vests,  glittering  jewelry,  showy  satin  stocks,  and 
everything  rather  pro  no  nee,  yet  no  man  had  a keener  or 
more  unsparing  critical  eye  for  these  vulgarities  in  others. 
He  once  gave  to  a friend  a vest  of  a most  gorgeous  shawl- 
pattern.  Soon  after,  at  a party,  he  quizzed  his  friend  un- 
mercifully for  his  ‘ stunning’  vest,  although  he  had  on  him, 
at  that  very  moment,  its  twin-brother,  or  sister  — which- 
ever sex  vests  belong  to.  This  inability  to  turn  the  bull’s 
eye  upon  himself,  with  the  same  searching  fearlessness  he 
did  on  others,  was  a defect  in  his  idiosyncrasy ; for,  de- 
spite man’s  self-love  and  vanity,  there  exists  in  men  a little 
self-consciousness.  All  of  us  are  not  blind  to  our  own 
defects.” 

It  is  probably  not  generally  known  that  Dickens  enter- 
tained great  contempt  for  Wordsworth;  and,  on  one  occa- 
sion, when  asked  his  opinion  of  the  poet  laureate,  said: 

“ I am  not  much  given  to  turn  critic  on  people  I meet ; 
but,  as  you  ask  me,  I will  candidly  avow  that  I thought 
him  a very  talkative,  vulgar  young  person  — but  I dare  say 
he  may  be  very  clever.  Mind,  I don’t  want  to  say  a word 
against  him,  for  I have  never  read  a line  he  has  written.” 
Some  time  after  this,  the  same  querist  guardedly  asked 
25  T 


29O  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

Dickens  how  he  had  liked  the  poet  laureate?  “Like 
him  ? Not  at  all.  He  is  a dreadful  Old  Ass.” 

The  story  of  Dickens’s  refusing  to  appear  before  the 
Queen  as  an  actor  when  he  was  not  received  as  an  author, 
is  graphically  and  beautifully  told.  So  is  also  the  story 
of  the  Queen  presenting  him  a copy  of  her  “Early  Days 
of  Albert,”  with  the  autographic  inscription,  “From  the 
humblest  to  the  most  distinguished  author  in  England.” 

Dickens  had  a very  indifferent  opinion  of  Shakspeare. 
He  said  he  was  too  careless  for  a great  poet,  and  often 
sneered  at  his  greatest  productions.  Lord  Byron  enter- 
tained the  same  opinion  of  Shakspeare ; and  the  late 
George  D.  Prentice  often  assured  us  that  he  read  the  plays 
of  Shakspeare  with  less  pleasure  than  he  did  those  of  any 
other  author. 

Dickens’s  fondness  for  dogs  was  great  beyond  measure. 
He  has  been  accused  of  loving  them  more  than  he  did  his 
own  children. 

His  female  characters  are  wanting  in  judgment  and  firm- 
ness, and  in  intellectual  strength  and  culture  ; but,  for  the 
most  part,  they  are  gentle  and  kind,  and  large  hearted. 
He  had,  nevertheless,  a high,  a very  high  appreciation  of 
woman’s  intellect,  but,  of  course,  as  Miss  Kate  Field  says, 
he  did  not  believe  in  the  coming  woman.  Dickens  dis- 
covered the  genius  of  Adelaide  Proctor,  and  was  the  de- 
voted friend  of  Mrs.  Gaskell,  and  sought  the  society  of 
Mrs.  Thomas  Adolphus  Trollope,  Fanny  Kemble,  George 
Eliot,  and  many  other  distinguished  literary  women.  He 
was  also  a great  admirer  of  the  goodness  of  Mrs.  Burdett 
Coutts,  and  dedicated  to  her  his  novel,  “ Martin  Chuzzle- 
wit.” 

He  has  been  extravagantly  praised  for  his  portraits  of 
children  ; but  many  of  them,  such  as  Paul  Dombey  and 
Eleanor  Trench,  are  not  children  at  all,  but  intellectual 
prodigies  who  happen,  as  if  by  chance,  to  be  small  and 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  291 

young.  We  are  among  those  who  see  very  little  to  admire 
in  the  delineation  of  Oliver  Twist.  He  is  merely  a lay- 
figure,  like  one  of  those  in  “ Mrs.  Jarley’s  Wax  Works,” 
who  are  described  as  standing  more  or  less  unsteadily  on 
their  legs,  with  their  eyes  very  wide  open,  and  their  nos- 
trils very  much  inflated,  and  the  muscles  of  their  legs  and 
arms  very  much  developed,  and  all  their  countenances  ex- 
pressing very  much  surprise. 

Mackenzie  says,  in  reference  to  Dickens’s  domestic  rela- 
tions, that  the  letter  of  the  husband  to  Mr.  Arthur  Smith 
should  be  viewed  as  the  wife’s  statement  also.  In  this 
letter,  Dickens,  after  mentioning  that  Mrs.  Dickens  grate- 
fully and  thankfully  accepted  the  arrangement  made  as  to 
the  care  of  their  children,  said  : 

‘ ‘ I hope  that  no  one  who  may  become  acquainted  with 
what  I write  here,  can  possibly  be  so  cruel  and  unjust  as  to 
put  any  misconstruction  on  our  separation,  so  far.  My 
elder  children  all  understand  it  perfectly,  and  all  accept  it 
as  inevitable. 

“ There  is  not  a shadow  of  doubt  or  concealment  among 
us.  My  eldest  son  and  I are  one  as  to  it  all. 

“Two  wicked  persons,  who  should  have  spoken  very 
differently  of  me,  in  consideration  of  earnest  respect  and 
gratitude,  have  (as  I am  told,  and,  indeed,  to  my  personal 
knowledge,)  coupled  with  this  separation  the  name  of  a 
young  lady  for  whom  I have  a great  attachment  and  regard. 
I will  not  repeat  her  name — I honor  it  too  much.  Upon 
my  soul  and  honor,  there  is  not  on  this  earth  a more  virtu- 
ous and  spotless  creature  than  that  young  lady.  I know 
her  to  be  innocent  and  pure,  and  as  good  as  my  own  dear 
daughters. 

“ Further,  I am  quite  sure  that  Mrs.  Dickens,  having  re- 
ceived this  assurance  from  me,  must  now  believe  it  in  the 
respect  I know  her  to  have  for  me,  and  in  the  perfect  con- 


292 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


fidence  I know  her  in  her  better  moments  to  repose  in  my 
truthfulness. 

“ On  this  head,  again,  there  is  not  a shadow  of  doubt  or 
concealment  between  my  children  and  me.  All  is  open 
and  plain  among  us,  as  though  we  were  brothers  and  sisters. 
They  are  perfectly  certain  that  I would  not  deceive  them, 
and  the  confidence  among  us  is  without  a fear.” 

The  lady  to  whom  reference  is  made  in  this  letter,  was 
his  wife’s  sister,  and  an  inmate  of  his  household,  and  had 
given  to  his  children  a tender  care  like  that  of  a mother. 
Mackenzie  says:  “ He  could  not  have  written  a stronger 
disclaimer  without  doing  the  lady  the  great  injustice  of 
publishing  her  name.  The  public  fully  accepted  his  frank 
and  indignant  denial.” 

Mackenzie  includes  in  his  Life  of  Dickens  the  following 
personal  notice,  dated  June  12,  1858,  published  for  the  first 
time  in  this  country,  with  the  remarks,  “ He  who  excuses 
himself,  accuses  himself ; but  the  utter  absence  of  excuse  here 
— the  mere  statement  of  plain  facts,  as  facts  — had  great 
weight  with  Dickens’s  multitudinous  readers — to  be  found 
wherever  the  Anglo-Saxon  tongue,  which  he  used  so  well, 
was  known.” 

personal. 

Three  and  twenty  years  have  passed  since  I entered  on 
my  present  relations  with  the  public.  They  began  when 
I was  so  young  that  I find  them  to  have  existed  for  nearly 
a quarter  of  a century. 

Through  all  that  time  I have  tried  to  be  as  faithful  to 
the  public  as  they  have  been  to  me.  It  was  my  duty  never 
to  trifle  with  them,  or  deceive  them,  or  presume  upon 
their  favor,  or  do  anything  with  it  but  to  work  hard  to 
justify  it.  I have  always  endeavored  to  discharge  that 
duty. 

My  conspicuous  position  has  often  made  me  the  subject 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  293 

of  fabulous  stories  and  unaccountable  statements.  Occa- 
sionally such  things  have  chafed  me,  or  even  wounded  me, 
but  I have  always  accepted  them  as  the  shadows  inseparable 
from  the  light  of  my  notoriety  and  success.  I have  never 
obtruded  any  such  personal  uneasiness  of  mine  upon  the 
generous  aggregate  of  my  audience. 

For  the  first  time  in  my  life,  and  I believe  for  the  last,  I 
now  deviate  from  the  principle  I have  so  long  observed,  by 
presenting  myself,  in  my  own  journal,  in  my  own  private 
character,  and  entreating  all  my  brethren  (as  they  deem 
that  they  have  reason  to  think  well  of  me,  and  to  know 
that  I am  a man  who  has  ever  been  unaffectedly  true  to  our 
common  calling,)  to  lend  their  aid  to  the  dissemination  of 
my  present  words. 

Some  domestic  trouble  of  mine,  of  long  standing,  on 
which  I will  make  no  further  remark  than  that  it  claims  to 
be  respected,  as  being  of  a sacredly  private  nature,  has 
lately  been  brought  to  an  arrangement,  which  involves  no 
anger  or  ill-will  of  any  kind,  and  the  whole  origin,  pro- 
gress, and  surrounding  circumstances  of  which  have  been, 
throughout,  within  the  knowledge  of  my  children.  It  is 
amicably  composed,  and  its  details  have  now  but  to  be  for- 
gotten by  those  concerned  in  it. 

By  some  means,  arising  out  of  wickedness,  or  out  of 
folly,  or  out  of  inconceivable  wild  chance,  or  out  of  all 
three,  this  trouble  has  been  made  the  occasion  of  misrepre- 
sentations most  grossly  false,  most  monstrous,  and  most 
cruel  — involving,  not  only  me,  but  innocent  persons  dear 
to  my  heart,  and  innocent  persons  of  whom  I have  no 
knowledge,  if,  indeed,  they  have  any  existence  — and  so 
widely  spread,  that  I doubt  if  one  reader  in  a thousand 
will  peruse  these  lines,  by  whom  some  touch  of  the  breath 
of  these  slanderers  will  not  have  passed,  like  an  unwhole- 
some air. 

Those  who  know  me  and  my  nature,  need  no  assurance 
25  * 


294  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

under  my  hand  that  such  calumnies  are  as  irreconcilable 
with  me  as  they  are,  in  their  frantic  incoherence,  with  one 
another.  But,  there  is  a great  multitude  who  know  me 
through  my  writings,  and  who  do  not  know  me  otherwise ; 
and  I cannot  bear  that  one  of  them  should  be  left  in  doubt, 
or  hazard  of  doubt,  through  my  poorly  shrinking  from  tak- 
ing the  unusual  means  to  which  I now  resort,  of  circulating 
the  truth. 

I most  solemnly  declare,  then  — and  this  I do,  both  in 
my  own  name  and  in  my  wife’s  name  — that  all  the  lately 
whispered  rumors  touching  the  trouble  at  which  I have 
glanced,  are  abominably  false.  And  that  whosoever  re- 
peats one  of  them  after  this  denial,  will  lie  as  wilfully  and 
as  foully  as  it  is  possible  for  any  false  witness  to  lie,  before 
heaven  and  earth.  Charles  Dickens. 

Dickens  was  very  warmly  attached  to  the  actor  Charles 
Fechter,  and  contributed  a handsome  tribute  to  his  genius 
in  the  Atlantic  Monthly , introducing  him  to  the  American 
people,  before  whom  he  was  about  to  appear. 

Mackenzie  refuses  to  credit  the  story  related  by  the 
French  author,  F.  Paul  Feval,  of  Dickens  having  paid, 
without  being  asked,  a debt  of  three  thousand  pounds,  in- 
curred by  Fechter  in  his  mismanagement  of  the  Lyceum 
Theatre,  in  London.  The  author,  in  his  usual  quaint  and 
inimitable  humor,  says  : 

“ Mr.  Dickens  was  impulsive  and  generous,  but  having 
the  future  of  a large  family  to  care  for,  it  may  be  very 
much  doubted  whether  he  ever  committed  the  pecuniary 
folly  thus  imputed  to  him  by  his  French  admirer.  Except 
in  romances,  and  those  of  the  wildest  character,  men  of 
letters,  however  rich  and  well  disposed,  do  not  make  pres- 
ents of  three  thousand  pounds  to  their  histrionic  friends.” 

We  see  no  mention  in  Mackenzie’s  “ Life  ” of  the  story 
related  by  Miss  Kate  Field,  in  her  lecture,  that  Dickens 
was  in  the  habit  of  sending  the  copy  of  all  his  works  to 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  295 

Fechter,  for  examination  and  criticism,  before  allowing 
them  to  be  published. 

We  are  very  much  inclined  to  question  the  authority  of 
the  above  anecdote.  Dickens  and  Fechter,  however,  were 
great  friends,  and  it  was  said  that  the  beautiful  little  sum- 
mer-house, on  the  model  of  a Swiss  chalet,  in  the  grounds 
of  Gad’s  Hill,  and  in  which  Dickens  often  wrote  his  copy, 
was  a gift  from  Mr.  Fechter ; it  was  not. 

Mackenzie  says  that  Dickens  was  the  best  after-dinner 
speaker  he  ever  heard,  and  that  most  of  his  speeches  were 
made  with  but  little  or  no  preparation.  We  are  also  in- 
formed that  he  got  rid  of  his  peculiarly  quick  and  sharp 
English  intonations,  which  were  so  objectionable,  and  that 
he  read  as  a highly  cultivated  gentleman  might  be  expected 
to  read  in  a drawing-room  to  ladies  and  gentlemen  of 
equally  high  culture.  “His  manner  was  not  stagey .”  “He 
took  the  greatest  care  to  produce  the  desired  effects,  but 
left  no  mark  of  the  chisel  upon  the  carving.” 

The  following  is  the  speech  in  which  he  took  leave  of 
his  American  auditors,  at  New  York,  on  April  20,  1868  : 

“Ladies  and  Gentlemen:  The  shadow  of  one  word 
has  impended  over  me  all  this  evening,  and  the  .time  has 
come  at  last  when  the  shadow  must  fall.  It  is  but  a very 
short  one,  but  the  weight  of  such  things  is  not  measured  by 
their  length ; and  two  much  shorter  words  express  the  whole 
realm  of  our  human  existence.  When  I was  reading  ‘ David 
Copperfield  ’ here,  last  Thursday  night,  I felt  that  there  was 
more  than  usual  significance  for  me  in  Mr.  Peggotty’s  decla- 
ration, ‘ My  future  life  lies  over  the  sea.’  And  when  I closed 
this  book  just  now,  I felt  keenly  that  I was  shortly  to  estab- 
lish such  an  alibi  as  would  have  satisfied  even  the  elder  Mr. 
Weller  himself.  The  relations  which  have  been  set  up  be- 
tween us  in  this  place  — relations  sanctioned,  on  my  side 
at  least,  by  the  most  earnest  devotion  of  myself  to  my  task 
— sustained  by  yourselves,  on  your  side  at  least,  by  the 


296  STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 

readiest' sympathy  and  kindliest  acknowledgment,  must  now 
be  broken  forever.  But  I entreat  you  to  believe  that,  in 
passing  from  my  sight,  you  will  not  pass  from  my  memory. 
I shall  often,  often  recall  you  as  I see  you  now,  equally  by 
my  winter  fire,  and  the  green  English  summer  weather.  I 
shall  never  recajl  you  as  a mere  public  audience,  but  rather 
as  a host  of  personal  friends,  and  ever  with  the  greatest 
gratitude,  tenderness,  and  consideration. 

“ Ladies  and  gentlemen,  I beg  to  bid  you  farewell,  and 
I pray  God  bless  you,  and  God  bless  the  land  in  which  I 
have  met  you.,, 

The  closing  scenes  in  Dickens’s  career  are  sketched  by 
Mackenzie  with  the  utmost  care  and  conscientious  truthful- 
ness. He  has  not  slighted  anything.  He  dwells  at  length 
upon  Dickens’s  ideas  of  Christianity,  and  administers  a re- 
buke at  once  stinging  and  epigrammatic  to  a deacon  in  Ply- 
mouth Church,  who  was  vain  and  weak  enough  to  doubt 
that  Dickens  was  a Christian  man.  “I  am  unable  to  see,” 
says  Mackenzie,  “what  justification,  either  in  charity  or  re- 
ligion, this  Pharisee,  or  any  other,  had  for  putting  a ques- 
tion which  did  not  concern  him . The  Caiaphas  of  that 
Brooklyn  synagogue,  instead  of  bidding  his  deacon  mind 
his  own  business,  and  look  to  his  own  soul,  said,  ‘ Whether 
Dickens  was  a Christian  man  in  the  experimental  term,  God 
only  knew.’  He  added  that,  in  his  writings,  Mr.  Dickens 
had  considerably  patronized  drink.  Did  he  ever  read  the 
warning  against  it,  in  ‘ The  Tale  of  Two  Cities,’  in  the  ex- 
ample of  Sydney  Carton  ? Then,  this  modern  Caiaphas 
said,  ‘ I recollect  hearing  my  father  say  of  Bishop  Heber, 
after  having  read  his  Life,  that  he  doubted  whether  he  was 
a Christian.’  Bishop  Heber,  the  great  poet-preacher,  who 
wrote  the  famous  Missionary  Hymn,  beginning  ‘From 
Greenland’s  icy  mountains,’  died  in  the  service  of  God,  in 
India.  It  would  have  been  as  well  to  have  left  him  alone ; 
or,  if  it  were  thought  necessary  to  ‘ point  a moral  ’ from 


Mackenzie’s  life  of  dickens.  297 

the  dead,  mention  might  have  been  made  of  the  Rev.  Ly- 
man Beecher,  D.  D.,  who,  as  ‘McClintock  & Strong’s  Cy^ 
clopaedia  of  Biblical  Literature  ’ tells  us,  was  charged  by 
some^of  his  brother  Calvinists  with  heresy , and  brought  to 
trial  on  that  charge,  in  1835.  There  are  multitudes,  too, 
who,  seeing  how  another  member  of  this  family  has  made 
incest  and  adultery  familiar  to  the  ear  as  household  words,’ 
by  a posthumous  slander  upon  poor  Lord  Byron  and  his 
sister,  naturally  entertain  great  doubts  as  to  her  Christian 
faith  and  charity.  ’ ’ 

But  we  will  not  dwell  upon  this  theme.  The  man  who 
expressed  in  his  last  will  and  testament  such  hopeful  words 
as  the  following,  if  not  a Christian,  should,  at  least,  be 
judged  with  Christian  charity : 

“I  commit  my  soul  to  the  mercy  of  God  through  our 
Lord  and  Saviour  Jesus  Christ;  and  I exhort  my  dear  chil- 
dren humbly  to  try  to  guide  themselves  by  the  teaching  of 
the  New  Testament,  in  its  broad  spirit,  and  to  put  no  faith 
in  any  ''man’s  narrow  construction  of  its  letter  here  or 
there.” 

Dr.  Mackenzie  publishes,  at  the  end  of  his  valuable 
work,  the  best  selection  by  far  from  Dickens’s  short 
sketches,  that  we  have  ever  seen.  In  the  collection  we 
find  the  sketches  entitled,  “A  Small  Star  in  the  East,” 
“Thomas  Griffith  Wainwright,”  “A  Plea  for  Total  Absti- 
nence,” the  memorial  upon  “Thackeray,”  “ Mr.  Barlow,” 
“Aboard  Ship,”  and  others. 

Dickens  fell  a victim  to  over-work.  A short  time  before 
his  death  he  was  in  London,  where  he  assisted  at  some  pri- 
vate theatricals.  One  of  the  performers  was  young  Mr. 
Power,  (son  of  the  actor,  Tyrone  Power,  who  was  lost  in 
the  President .)  The  Power  family  was  left  in  an  almost 
destitute  condition,  and  Dickens,  Mackenzie  tells,  suc- 
ceeded in  obtaining  from  the  public  a handsome  pecuni- 
ary provision  for  them.  Young  Mr.  Power  was  greatly 
attached  to  his  benefactor. 


298 


STUDIES  IN  LITERATURE. 


As  they  were  coming  out  of  the  place  of  performance, 
Mr.  Dickens  put  his  hand  upon  his  companion’s  shoulder, 
and  said,  “ I think  you  are  very  much  improved  in  your 
performance.  But,  I must  tell  you  that  you  never  can 
become  a great  actor;  and  I recommend  you  by  all  means 
not  to  give  up  business  for  the  stage.”  As  he  was  leaving, 
Mr.  Power  asked  him  when  he  again  expected  to  be  in 
London.  “Not  for  some  time,”  he  said.  “I  am  tired. 
I want  rest  — rest,”  pronouncing  the  last  word  in  a linger- 
ing tone. 

The  great  novelist  was  a firm  believer  in  the  efficacy  of 
prayer.  He  said,  on  one  occasion,  to  a friend  who  asked 
him  if  he  ever  prayed:  “Yes;  every  night  and  every 

morning.” 

He  died  from  apoplexy,  June  9th,  1870,  in  the  presence  of 
his  two  daughters,  his  eldest  son,  Charles  Dickens,  Jr.,  and 
Miss  Hogarth.  He  appeared  perfectly  unconscious  from 
the  first  moment  of  his  attack,  and  did  not  utter  a word 
during  his  illness. 

He  directed  in  his  will  that  his  funeral  should  be  “unos- 
tentatious and  strictly  private,”  and  that  his  friends  should 
not  “make  him  the  subject  of  any  monument,  memorial, 
or  testimonial  whatever.” 

His  remains  are  buried  in  Poets’  Corner,  in  Westminster 
Abbey,  at  the  feet  of  Dr.  Johnson  and  Garrick.  Addison 
and  Handel  rest  at  his  head,  while  Oliver  Goldsmith, 
Rowe,  Campbell,  Gifford,  Thomson,  Sheridan,  Macau- 
lay, and  Thackeray  encircle  him. 


/ 


A*. 


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